


Stay with Her

by stefanie_bean



Category: Lost
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon Divergent, Complete, F/M, Rare Pairings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 114,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3411494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stefanie_bean/pseuds/stefanie_bean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Oceanic 815 crash, Jack told Hurley to stay with Claire, and in this retelling that's just what Hurley does. They fall in love, and pretty much everyone gets to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stay with Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-divergent after Chapter 6.

The terrified pregnant girl is talking so fast that Hurley can barely understand her, so he squats beside her in the wreckage-strewn sand and tries to calm her down. Regrets spill out of her mouth: why she was even on this plane, what was she thinking, going to Los Angeles. She must have been crazy. 

Her blonde hair falls into her face. He wants to brush it out of her eyes, but doesn't dare.

The polite way to put it is that he's a big man. Husky. Stocky. The truth is he's fat, huge even, but for once he's glad for his broad body. It creates a spot of shade for her to shelter in. The relentless sun makes high noon in LA seem dim. 

This tall, fit guy in a dark suit told him to keep an eye on her. Jack, that was his name. Jack has given him a watch, one of those silver ones with clean lines which costs thousands of dollars. 

Hurley's supposed to use the watch to time the girl's contractions, whatever that means. Instead, he just clutches it like a talisman as the pregnant girl keeps talking.

Behind him, he overhears Jack tell someone that he's a doctor. Doctor Jack, huh. That explains a lot. 

He wonders if the cut on her chin hurts. Just as he's about to ask her, Jack heads for them, arms waving, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Move! Move!” 

Hurley looks up. A burning airplane wing bends to and fro, ready to topple right onto himself and the girl. As if faced with an intricate sum, he puts two and two together: Jack screaming, the helpless girl crouched before him, the blade about to slice them all to shreds. Hurley hesitates, worried that he might hurt the baby if he yanks her straight up. A cold voice from deep inside says that if he waits any longer, there won't be a baby, and nothing much left of him, either. 

Praying that he doesn't screw this up, Hurley takes a deep breath. Despite her pregnancy, she's light, and it takes almost no effort to move her. Doctor Jack grabs her other arm, and the two of them drag her away as she stumbles over her Converse sneakers. 

The explosion numbs Hurley's ears. When it's over, Jack stands in front of him, gesturing towards the pregnant girl and shouting. The whole crash site has filled with roaring white noise, or maybe it's just his ears. 

Jack's meaning is clear, though. He points at the girl, emphatic, and his words break through the confusion.

“Stay with her.”

"Dude, I'm not going anywhere," Hurley answers. His lips move but he can't hear himself.

Nor can he hear her cries. She makes them, for sure, because her small pointed face twists up in fear as she grabs that huge belly which looks ready to pop any second.

He lies in the sand, which still shakes from the explosion. Or maybe it's just him doing the shaking. Jack's command pins him to the beach like a spear.

_Stay with her._

* * * * * * * *

Now that it looks like nothing else is going to blow up any time soon, people start grabbing water bottles from their broken plastic cases. The big man hates shoving himself forward, but he does, anyway, because the pregnant girl is red-faced, drenched in sweat, and probably as thirsty as he is. She sits on a broken airplane tire in the shade of the fuselage where he doesn't want to go, where all the dead people are. So he just lets his considerable momentum carry him forward until he manages to snag two bottles.

When he gets back, she's still sitting where he left her, poking her stomach over and over in that weird pregnant-woman way. He rests on the other side of the wheel and it sinks under his weight, but luckily doesn't tip over. 

She doesn't take the water bottle at first. Instead, she holds out a hand covered with dirt and scratches. "I'm Claire. We didn't get properly introduced earlier."

"Yeah," he says with a weak laugh. "Explosions and all." He almost says his name, his full real name. It hangs right on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitates. Instead, the nickname tumbles out, even though he doesn't mean for it to. "Hurley."

He doesn't take her hand, because he's too busy staring into the blue ocean of her eyes, and besides, his hands are full of water bottles. By the time she takes one, and he juggles the other from his right hand to his left, she's already pulled her own hand back.

 _I. Am. Such. An. Idiot,_ he thinks.

Politeness satisfied, she cracks open the bottle and guzzles the water, sucking and gulping as if there was none other in the world to be had. 

“Take it easy,” Hurley says.

She laughs, embarrassed at her naked, uncontrolled thirst. When she hands him the empty, after a second's confusion he sees why. She has no bag, and even if that tight skirt had pockets, it's so full of baby and the rest of her that a water bottle would get squashed flat. 

Claire says, “I guess we'll have to start a recycling program.”

For the first time she doesn't seem terrified. This confuses the hell out of Hurley, because now he'll have to talk to her normally. The casual back-and-forth between men and women is lost on him, always has been. It's not just unsatisfied thirst which swells his tongue two sizes too big in his mouth. Mutely he takes the bottle from her, drinks his own, then stashes both empties in his cargo pockets, lashed by a little flicker of pain as her attention wanders away from him.

Over her shoulder he sees tubs full of frozen airplane meals, probably not frozen anymore after a few hours in this sun. Weirder yet, no one's discovered them. People are still busy climbing over hot, shredded metal to get to the water. 

“There's something I gotta do,” Hurley tells her, and the tire rocks to the other side as he gets up. 

“Can I help? I mean, I can't just sit here.”

A few small fires still burn in front of the wreckage where the meals lie, and he knows from the restaurant how heavy pre-made food trays can be. “Nah, I got this.”

Claire gives him that smile again as the setting sun lights up her hair like spun gold. If he didn't think it was possible for her eyes to shine any more blue, he was wrong. 

He lugs one tub after another from the wreckage, counting as he goes. Every so often he looks over at Claire as she stands where the shore meets the sea, just rubbing her belly. 

At first Hurley wonders if that's some kind of special baby massage, but then he catches a glimpse of her stricken, anguished face. It's plain that she must not think anybody's looking at her as she covers her face with her hands.

He wants to rush to her at once, but a couple of guys want to know if that's airplane food. Pointedly they tell Hurley they were supposed to get served dinner right before the plane broke up. Claire moves on up the beach, taking with her the missed, fleeting moment. Hurley gives each guy a meal tray, then loads up a platter. If he keeps moving, a crowd won't congregate. Better that than a feeding frenzy.

All of a sudden it's dark, almost as if a light's been switched off. A few people have started fires, but not enough, and before he knows it, the beach is almost plunged into darkness. 

Claire's not at the shoreline any more, leaving him in panic, afraid of failure and disappointment. Doctor Jack silently takes a tray from Hurley, then hands it to the cute brunette perched by his side. They're busy, it's obvious, wrapped up in each other and their conversation, so Hurley slips away.

There's Claire, over by a piece of burning wreckage, talking to some short guy with raggedy light-colored hair and this grimy tape stuff wrapped around his fingers. At least she's okay, so Hurley keeps passing out meals, trying to say something to each person. A few people offer their names, smile back. 

The bald guy who's wearing the same shirt as him isn't interested in chatting. He grumbles at Hurley, then ignores him. Just another disgruntled customer, but that doesn't bother Hurley, because he's used to those. There are some people you just can't please, and the best thing to do is move right along to the next person.

It's fully night now. For the first time in his life, he sees above him great white swaths of stars, as if someone's sprayed milk into a vast sea of darkness. The brilliant swirls take his breath away. Every star seems alive, as they blink down on the chaos below. 

What did that old astronomer on late-night cable used to say, “billy-uns and billy-uns of stars?” Hurley always thought that must have been hooey. It's true, though. Astronomer dude must have seen it too, maybe on some Pacific island somewhere with no lights, no cities, no airports, nothing but the jungle, the sea, and the arching, blazing sky. 

As Hurley looks skyward, his feet keep moving on their own. He almost stumbles over Claire, wrapped in a dark blue airline blanket, sitting alone on a piece of pipe. The clear moment of transcendence passes, and silently Hurley curses his big feet, his clumsiness, his super-sized body that refuses to do what he wants, won't go where he wants it to go. Except behind the wheel of a car, that is, where he can slice through LA traffic unfazed, floating free of anxiety and racing thoughts. But there are no cars here, and he's stuck with his own two clodhoppers.

Why doesn't she have any food? Now Hurley's kicking himself inside, hard. Can't there just be one thing he doesn't mess up? 

He's still got the doctor's watch in his pocket, which reminds him that he's also supposed to keep an eye on whatever baby-stuff she's got going on. But everything seems quiet in that department, and suddenly he's embarrassed to the point where he can't look at her. All along the skin of his arm and up the side of his face he can sense the temperature drop a few degrees. Not the air temperature, which is tropically warm, but the level of feeling in the gap between them, which suddenly seems as cool as the blackness between two distant stars.

Then something comes back to him, something he's heard his mother say when sitting around with his aunts, yakking up a storm about who just got married, who had to, and when was the baby due? Eating for two, his mother had called it. Eating for two. 

So out of the depths of his embarrassment he hands Claire another meal, and this time he doesn't look away. Her gentle smile breaks out as bright as those overhead stars undimmed by lights or smog, and it's directed straight at him, unmistakable. He backs up, a deer caught in a pair of sweet blue headlights, then turns just in time to avoid stepping on a couple of people clustered around a small beach fire, a weak and inadequate one that won't last the night.

* * * * * * * *

Later that evening he drags a piece of fuselage over to a sandy spot next to a luggage pile. All around him, people talk in excited clusters about the strange _something_ that rattled its way through the forest just ten minutes ago, how it sounded like a locomotive being stuffed into a blender, how it had pulled down all those trees. Whatever it was, it's gone now, and the jungle is quiet except for the occasional shrieks of birds.

Hurley ignores the chatter. Sure, that thing was weird and even scary, but right now he has something more important to worry about. He wedges wreckage into the ground, piling up sand behind it so it won't tip over. When he's done, he steps back to admire what he's made. As long as it stays dry, it'll serve as a passable nest. For her. 

He hasn't been able to find any airplane blankets, though. Oh, wait, Claire already has one, which she got from the little, scraggly-haired hip guy, and a pang of disappointment shoots through him. As usual he's a day late and a dollar short. A sandy, torn airline pillow will have to do.

Claire beams at him when he hands her the pillow, brushing it off while he props up a few large pieces of luggage around the sheltering wall of the wreckage. 

She laughs and says, “It's kind of like building a fort.”

“Yeah.” This time he manages a shy hint of a smile.

It was hard enough to find that pillow, and he hasn't gotten anything for himself, but he figures he can use his top shirt to cushion his head. Maybe worm himself into a place in front of one of the camp fires, where people have already started to settle down for the night. 

"Where are you going?" she asks after he's rearranged the luggage for the third time, as he's gathering the resolve to struggle to his feet. 

He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. "Far from the fuselage as I can get, I guess."

She waves her hand as if they were sitting in a coffee bar in Los Angeles, and not on the other side of the world. "You don't have to. Go, I mean. Look, there's lots of room.”

He sits down as quickly as if she'd pushed him with her small hand, instead of just using her voice.

Without waiting for an answer, she faces away from him, wraps herself in the blanket, and curls around the ball of her belly. Because he can't see her eyes, she seems to release a little of her fright. “What do you think that thing was?” 

“I dunno. Animals, maybe?” In his mind he sees a black-and-white movie King Kong wrestling with a mini-Godzilla, before something even worse comes to mind. He fights with himself for a second or two, then blurts it out anyway. “You ever see _Jurassic Park_?”

“Who hasn't seen _Jurassic Park_?” She rolls over half-way, eyes big and anguished now.

Inside he kicks himself. Big feet, big gut, big mouth, what's next? 

“You don't think—” 

“Nah, I don't,” he lies. Who knows what scientists can do now, ten years since that movie came out? The whispering jungle could hold anything at all, even mutant dinosaurs made by crazy experiments. Dinosaurs that are on the loose. He doesn't want to freak her out, though. “Besides, if there were, why wouldn't they just scarf us down right here on the beach?” 

Miraculously, it's the right thing to say. She gives him a little smile before rolling over again. 

He just lies there and stares at the delicate curve of her shoulder as she breathes. Suddenly he wants to flee, but to get out, he'd have to climb over her, and he doesn't trust his clumsy feet. Or worse, he'd have to step over her head, and that would take him past a trio of women sitting a couple yards away. They watch him and Claire with intent, glittering eyes. 

So he wedges himself back up as far as he can against the cool metal, trying not to touch her. His big stomach betrays him as it slopes to fill the hollow of her back. She's over-estimated how much room there is, but she doesn't scoot away. 

Too soon she breaks the sweet contact by shifting over onto her back. She starts that belly-poking thing again, pressing here and there, then gives out a long sigh.

Panic seizes Hurley, because there are worse things than dinosaurs or mastodons in the night. She might be having the baby right now, right here, and a touch of fear laces his voice. “What's wrong?”

"Nothing, Hurley." 

Despite his jangling nerves, he likes the way she says his name, _Huuhh-ley._ She stretches out the first syllable a beat longer than he's used to. “You, um, English?”

“Australian.” She sounds suddenly weary, as if she wants him to leave her alone. 

The responsibility Jack laid on him won't go away, though. “You sure there's no, uh, baby stuff going on?”

“I'm fine,” she says, suddenly sharp.

He doesn't believe her, but has no idea what to say, what to ask, or what he'd do if he got an answer. Claws of fear scrabble at his throat.

So Hurley closes his eyes, measuring his breathing the way they taught him in the hospital, reinforced in outpatient therapy. Back in LA, anxiety like this would spur him to a long drive up and down Santa Monica Boulevard, or a bout of late night TV with a family-sized bag of potato chips and a pint of sour cream-and-onion dip. But there are none of those distractions here. Only the comfortable sand, the pounding surf, and Claire's soft breathing as she finally drifts off.

Exhaustion wins, drawing Hurley into sleep as well.

( _continued_ )


	2. The Child Awakes

Claire wakes up in the gray border between night and dawn. Hurley's wide back rises and falls in time to his snores, which sound like the purr of a very large cat. Comforted by the sound, she lies there, listening. 

Not for long, because the urge to pee is overwhelming. She pokes her belly, hard. Before the crash, she'd wake up three, four times a night when the baby used her bladder for a punching bag.

Sick fear trickles through her stomach, because she knows why she's slept the whole night through. The baby hasn't moved.

But if she doesn't get up soon, she'll wet herself.

She steps over the legs of the women sleeping near them, the ones who were so watchful the night before. One's dumpy in a middle-aged way, pale-skinned, wearing a long olive-green dress. The other woman, lean and dark, sleeps on the older woman's shoulder. Next to them, a tan blonde lies cuddled up with a dark-haired muscular man, both of them with movie-star good looks. Strangers to each other yesterday, they now cling together in the pastel dawn.

People are pairing up already. Claire sighs as she looks for a private place to pee.

Afterward, she stares out at the beautiful rolling ocean, but all she can think of is the great silent lump in her belly. The only person on the beach with a kid is a man, and she doesn't want to pester random women with pregnancy questions. 

She could ask the doctor, Jack, when he gets up. But he's got a lot on his mind, like that terribly injured man with the chest wound. Also, she's embarrassed at how little she knows. She had signed up for childbirth education classes, but then blew them off after Thomas abandoned her. All the brochures talked about were couples. Your partner. Your support team. Right. What partner, what support team?

The pregnancy books sit on her dresser at home, unread.

As little as Claire knows, she's aware that baby kicks are important. How many kicks, though? How often? She wishes Mum were here to ask. Then she wishes Mum were in any shape to be asked anything at all. 

Damn, why didn't she pay more attention when Mum and Aunt Lindsey huddled over cups of tea, talking pregnancy and babies?

At the time, Claire told herself that she'd never have a baby. Just disgusting, it was. She couldn't believe how those older women treated it as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. She would storm through the room where they talked, her face set in a scowl of rejection.

Yet here she is, soon to have a baby of her own. Maybe.

* * * * * * * *

As the beach camp comes slowly to life, everyone's face reflects the same slow horror. No one has come for them. No planes fly over, and not a single contrail mars the clear blue sky. The horizon line is remarkably clear of even the faintest smudge of diesel smoke. 

“What about breakfast?” one man says. He's heavy-set, with a harsh, impatient voice. 

With one mind, the group stares at Hurley, anticipation in their eyes. 

Hurley turns to Claire. “Hey, you wanna give me a hand?”

She's glad to shoulder cafeteria duty with him. It's far better than sitting alone, like a bump on a log.

Hurley drags the airplane meals from the shady spot behind their fuselage shelter. Claire's offered her extra blanket to cover them.

Yesterday Claire and her seat-mate were complaining about airline food. But the woman's not here today. She's probably in the sea, dashed to pieces in the surf, or food for sharks. And this soggy, glorified TV dinner is looking pretty good at present. 

“Do you think they've gone over by now?” Claire says. She's worked in a restaurant kitchen, where food safety gets drilled into your head.

Hurley lifts the aluminum foil cover of one meal and takes a sniff. “This batch is lasagna. Lot of tomato sauce, some Parmesan cheese. Not much in there to go bad.” 

After inspecting a few more meals, he deems them safe to eat. He gives her a tray, lightly-laden with half a dozen foil packages, then heaves up his own heavy one.

A look passes between them. There's not much left.

Hurley says, "I'll talk to Jack. About how we might run out." 

“Someone will come for us before then,” Claire says. She wants to pull her weight, to give a little comfort instead of always receiving it.

“You know it,” he says. But she can't miss the haunted expression in his eyes.

* * * * * * * *

Hurley and Claire have collected the aluminum food trays from breakfast and are washing them in the sea, when it suddenly starts to rain. Great gusting sheets drench the luggage, people, everything. Some head for the fuselage, so Hurley races across the sand, waving them away. He reaches Claire's side, practically lifting her along as he steers her under a section of wing.

He pulls another woman under, too, an older one from the Bronx named Rose. She and Claire huddle together, but it's impossible to avoid getting wet.

Out at the tree line, something moves through the high branches. It's that _thing_ again, from last night. Suddenly Claire is very much aware of being watched. Something out there scrutinizes her, runs invisible eyes up and down every inch of her. She covers her belly in an instinctive gesture of protection.

Before she knows it, she heads into the rain towards whatever's out there. Within seconds she's drenched. A few trees come down with splintery cracks loud enough to be heard above the storm. 

Above the swaying trees, a cloud of leaves rises, swirling in a mix of wind and rain. Then, it can't be, oh, it's impossible, but the leaves form themselves momentarily into a kind of face. Or rather, like a mask of brown and green which suggests a face made of nothing but darkness. Of a terrifying absence.

Rose yanks Claire back, hard. 

“There it is again,” Claire says, suddenly brought back to herself by Rose's strong, firm hand.

Rose stares as if she sees something like it too, or maybe worse. “Oh, my God,” she says, as she starts to pray.

It's not an animal. It can't be. Claire swears that there's an intelligence behind it. The moment of terrible clarity passes, leaving nothing in the jungle except the rustling trees.

The rain stops as abruptly as it began.

* * * * * * * *

Shannon's brother Boone is beautiful as a perfectly chiseled Greek statue. He speaks kindly to Claire, but she doesn't like the angry looks he darts at his sister. Loudly, so that Shannon can hear, he asks Hurley to help him move piles of luggage. 

Claire joins a few others who sit and sort through unopened piles of suitcases.

Before moving off, Hurley gives Claire his first real smile. “If you find mine, holler.”

“Will do.”

Claire wants to talk to the women working nearby, but finds herself suddenly shy as they introduce themselves. The heavy woman in the olive hippie dress is Kathy, and her friend's called Shana. Even though they were strangers on a plane, just like her, they chatter together like old friends. With them are the couple who look like movie stars, Faith and Craig. 

At first the women don't talk to Claire, so she just sits and sorts. When Claire finds a box of tampons, she says, “Well, _these_ certainly aren't mine.”

The women stare for a second. Then Shana bursts out laughing, and the rest follow.

“So, there's something the Marlboro Man didn't take,” Kathy says. They look over at the rangy Yank who perches on a piece of curved fuselage, smoking. He's been going through luggage too, but on his own: taking handfuls of deodorant, ibuprofen, sunscreen.

Shana projects her voice straight over to the smoking man. “I guess he's not in the market for stuff full of _cooties_.” 

If he hears her, he ignores it.

More laughter. Something must have gotten under the man's skin, though, because he gets up and starts to pace. 

“Hey, Claire,” Shana says. “Claire Littleton, right? This must be yours.”

It's her carry-on bag, the black one with blue and green flowers. It's silly, but grasping the bag gives her a great rush of confidence. Maybe things will work out after all.

Sitting next to Claire is Jane, an Englishwoman. At breakfast, Claire overheard her say that her sister is a midwife in Surrey. Claire has just about worked up the courage to ask Jane a baby-related question, when the father named Michael and his child pass by. Puzzlement crosses Michael's dark brown face. His kid drags along behind him, clearly unhappy. Claire recognizes that look, having worn it enough around her own mum.

The handsome fellow called Sayid follows them both, his mouth set in a serious line. 

Michael holds up a pair of handcuffs, which glitter in the mid-day sun. “These belong to anybody?” 

The smoking man throws his cigarette to his feet, like some kind of challenge. “Yeah, probably to Mo-ham-mad over there. How'd you get 'em off your wrists, boy?”

Even though the insult isn't directed at Michael, he flinches, and his face flushes with anger.

Before she knows it, Hurley slips up silently behind her. “This might get ugly, Claire. How about you take a walk down the beach?”

At first she thinks to argue, but Kathy's grey eyes are trained on her, and she doesn't even have to speak. Just one little nod, and Claire gets up.

A chorus of angry male voices follows her down the beach, but she doesn't turn around.

* * * * * * * *

Jack has come back from his trek. After breaking up the fight, he enlists Hurley to help carry a wide row of first-class seats out into the sun. Jack wants Claire to have a place to sit, so that she can elevate her feet.

"We don't want those ankles to swell," Jack says before he dashes off, beckoning Hurley to follow him. Something to do with the man with the chest wound. In a rush, Hurley tells Claire that Jack found the cockpit, but there were no survivors. Then Hurley's gone, pulled along in Jack's wake.

Now Claire sprawls out on the first-class row, her bag gaping open. She had been writing, but her journal lies forgotten for the moment. 

The slimy, bitter taste of sea urchin still coats her mouth. A Korean man named Jin gave it to her, but now he's moved down the beach, still offering bits of the gummy orange stuff. A few people even take some. 

None of that matters now. Her baby's alive. He's alive.

She cradles her big stomach between breasts and underbelly, feeling the motions inside. The baby must have huge feet, given the strength of those kicks. He head-butts her bladder, making her have to go again. She waits a minute, just savoring the movement, the life.

When she heads back to the main part of the beach, she glimpses Jack, busy with the wounded man. What a mess, really. She catches sight of blood-stained bandages, the red gore which coats Jack's arms to the elbow, and doesn't want to get any closer.

Wasn't Hurley supposed to be with Jack, though? As she scans the beach for him, her joy at this remarkable thing, her baby moving, starts to fade. 

From behind a clump of bushes, someone's gasping and retching. It's Hurley, most of him hidden by the shrubs, his big athletic shoes stick out behind. He's on his knees, being sick. 

“Oh, my God, are you all right?” she says, squatting down.

Hastily he covers the red mess with handfuls of sand. The color pushes her own stomach into a somersault, until she remembers that their last meal was mostly tomato sauce with a few noodles.

Another wave of sickness hits him. He tries to hold back his long hair while supporting himself at the same time, but he can't do both. Quickly she reaches over to collect the whole curly mass, clutching it with both hands because there's so much of it. 

Stomach empty now, he plops onto his haunches and weakly laughs. “Guess I'm living up to my name.”

It takes Claire a second to get the joke. “Oh, right. Hurl... Hurley. So, you tossed your cookies.”

“Upchucked, yeah.”

“Cooked up the curbside quiche.”

He chuckles at that one. “Worshiping the great porcelain god. Or more like the sandy one.”

Now it's her turn to chuckle, but she quickly turns serious. “What happened, Hurley? Last I saw you, you were helping Jack.”

“Yeah, helping Jack was what did me in. I kept telling him, 'I'm not so good with blood,' but he didn't listen. 'Fore I knew it, I was lying face down in the sand. Then, when I came to, and looked over...” He shudders as his voice trails off. Tan freckles stand out in clumps against his white face.

“So blood sets you off, huh?”

“Dude, I cannot stand it. Let's not talk about it, OK?” 

Hurley's hands are big as shovels, and he soon buries the mess he's made. As Claire tosses a few handfuls of sand, her happiness collapses. Her desire to tell him about the baby shrinks down into a small interior cubbyhole and pulls the door shut behind it.

They make a sand pile about a foot tall. He rolls over onto his feet and helps her up.

* * * * * * * *

The sun has fallen right to the edge of the western sea, where it hangs like a red rubber ball. Jane, Shana, Kathy, and another woman called Sylvie are clustered around a fire. 

Claire comes up to them, trying to sound casual and light. “Dinner is served.”

“You sure you should be doing that?” Kathy says. “I mean—” 

Kathy takes the tray with five dinners as Claire heavily lowers herself. “Jack said I should be up and moving about. That I wasn't to sit in one place too long.”

“Right, blood clots,” Jane says.

Claire looks over, alarmed. “What?”

Jane turns away quickly, without answering.

Everyone thanks Claire, but she's more focused on Jane. “So... your sister's a midwife. Did she ever talk shop much?”

“Now and again,” Jane answers, a bit more terse than Claire would like. 

Shana lifts the foil on her tray, exposing leathery roast beef, mixed vegetables, and a dollop of mashed potato.

Claire goes on, hesitant. “Jane, did your sister ever talk about any of the births? I mean, how they went?”

Shana breaks in before Jane has a chance to answer. “Claire, you're not due for a month, right? They'll get here before then.”

The other women nod their heads, agreeing and making comforting noises. All but Jane, who says in a clipped voice, “She's done some home births, yes. But always with an ambulance on call.”

“Thanks, Jane,” Kathy says underneath her breath.

Claire pushes on. “Did she ever say, um, whether there was a lot of blood?”

Jane's face shuts down, probably because of some story that her sister has shared. From the hard set of her jaw, it's clear that wild horses won't drag it out of her. 

Finally Jane gives a nod in Jack's direction. He's sitting alone under one of the big feathery trees, eyes closed in exhaustion. “Maybe you should ask the doctor.”

“Yeah, right. Thanks.” That's the last thing in the world Claire wants to do right now.

* * * * * * * *

Claire threads her way past people settling down for the night. In their shelter, Hurley's lying on his back, staring skyward. A full moon floods the beach with silvery light. His t-shirt's hiked up, revealing a pale, heavy crescent of flesh. 

He and Jack have spent most of the evening putting together a hospital tent. Beach towels hang like festive banners from a scrap-metal frame, their bright colors disguising the grim suffering within. 

There's something cool and remote in Hurley's manner. As he rolls over towards her, he yanks his shirt down. “Hey, Claire.”

“Hey, yourself. How's the patient?”

“Not doing so hot.”

“So, did you get a chance to talk to Jack about the meal situation?”

“We, um, got kind of busy. I'll do it tomorrow.”

Claire feels thin and insubstantial against the weight of his mood. “Hurley, what's wrong?”

He obviously doesn't want to tell her, but he's not going to say something placating, either. Or worse, lie. After a few seconds, he says in a small, tired voice, “I just want to go home.”

Claire can't bring herself to say, “Me, too,” because she hasn't a clue what she'll do, where she'll go, even if they do get out of here. She starts to shiver in the tropical night air.

Suddenly Hurley's back from the dark side of the moon, or wherever he's been. All full of concern, he says, “Nothing's... going on, is it?”

“No, it's okay. I did feel the baby move today, though.”

“That's awesome, right?” 

“Yeah, Hurley, that's pretty awesome.” 

One more responsibility discharged, he can relax now. For a long time she stares at him while he sleeps, his moon face a mirror to the one in the sky.

( _continued_ )


	3. Death Comes for the Marshal

Every time Claire gets up at night to crouch behind a tree, Hurley wakes up. He wouldn't mind, except that just as he drifts off to sleep, she gets up again. He keeps his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, not wanting her to feel badly about her night-time trips.

What makes it worse is that drifting off isn't so easy. Late last night, in the medical tent, he found the mugshot of that cute brunette Kate Austen. He feels weird knowing her name when she's never told him. It's like Superman using his X-ray vision to peer into other people's houses, or underneath their clothes.

Kate looks like a real hard-ass, but Hurley knows that mug shots aren't the most flattering. When his brother Diego got arrested, he brought his mug shot home and showed it off up and down the block. Dad had left only two years before, and Hurley's mother still had hope. “When your father gets back,” she said to Diego. “Just wait till he gets back.” 

Diego laughed in their mother's face. The grainy photograph made him look heavy-jawed and beetle-browed, years older than sixteen. 

“You look like a thug,” his mother said. 

“It wasn't my fault, Ma,” Diego protested. “I didn't know the car was jacked. I was just a passenger.” Still, he bragged about it. He taped the photo up in his and Hurley's bedroom until their mother tossed it in the trash.

Just because Diego had a run-in with the cops didn't make him a bad guy. The juvie judge must have thought so, because he let Diego off. Maybe it'll be like that for Kate. But the way the marshal mutters her name, the way he half-opens his glazed, bloodshot eyes whenever she walks by, that points to more than a kid jacking a car.

Hurley's still puzzling it out when Claire gets up again. A tiny sliver of sunlight glitters on the eastern ocean, so Hurley pushes himself up. He's not getting back to sleep, that's for sure.

As he heads down to the shoreline, he spies that Chinese guy Jin. Or maybe he's Japanese. Who knows, since nobody can understand him. Jin roots around in the rocks at the shore, picking up clams and stuff. Maybe Hurley can find some seafood of his own, if he gets lucky.

* * * * * * * *

After wading in the shallows for half an hour, Hurley hasn't found a thing to eat. Up the beach, Jin already has a shirt full of irregular, dark objects that are probably pretty tasty inside.

The sun's fully up now, clear and bright. Seagulls drift overhead, then power-dive the water. Everything knows how to find its breakfast, except him. His shoes are full of water and they squelch. 

“G' morning.” Claire wades in the surf beside him, tennis shoes in one hand, finger-combing her hair with the other. Pink sunlight paints her face with rosy highlights. “Sorry I kept you up.”

Hurley doesn't know where to look. He desperately wishes for something to give her: a fish, a succulent piece of fruit, a pearl. His hands are empty, though. He has nothing. Worse than that, a guilty burden weighs on him. What if Kate's a kidnapper or baby-stealer? Should he warn Claire? In all the movies, kidnapping's a federal crime. Maybe that's why Kate was being towed by a US marshal.

Claire's still trying to apologize. As he stammers, “Nah, I'm too hungry to sleep anyway—” shouts ring out up and down the beach.

Yesterday evening, Sayid led a group in a trek up the mountain. Now he has returned, followed by the redneck jackass called Sawyer. Behind them troop the gleaming Shannon and her equally glossy brother Boone. There's Charlie of the taped-up fingers, and bringing up the rear is Kate herself, eyes downcast. 

“Everyone gather round,” Sayid says in a commanding voice. “I have something to share.” 

Hurley has no trouble believing Sayid was a military officer, even if he was on the wrong side. He brushes Claire's arm to get her attention, the first time he's deliberately touched her. “Lemme know what he says, OK? I'm gonna go get Jack.”

Before she can answer, Hurley darts away. He runs hard, as much to get back to her quickly as to let Jack know that the explorers have returned.

* * * * * * * *

Sayid doesn't say much about their overnight on the mountain, but he has lots of ideas for organizing the survivors. He appoints himself head of water-collection efforts. A plump, bespectacled guy called Jerome volunteers to collect electronics. When Sayid mentions food rationing, Hurley's hand shoots up before anyone else's.

Not that there's much food left to ration.

“Pretty awesome, huh?” Hurley says to Jack. They've found a real prize, a box full of tarps. Hurley's helping Jack tie one atop the medical tent, while the marshal lies wheezing beneath.

Jack doesn't answer, just nods. 

Hurley points to the unconscious marshal. “What's wrong with his breathing?” 

“Pneumonia,” Jack says in a terse voice. “It causes fluid build-up in the lungs.”

Suddenly Hurley doesn't want to know any more, so he changes the subject. “Don't you think it's kinda weird that Sayid's doing water, when he's like, Mr. Radio Man?”

Jack stops lacing one tarp to another, his face patient and serious. “If we don't have a reliable source of water, Hurley, no one's going to be doing anything, much less repairing electronics.” He starts up again, his fingers working the cords into tight, elegant knots. “Three days. That's as long as anybody lasts without water. The sick, the elderly, the pregnant... they go faster.”

At “the pregnant,” Hurley scans the beach for Claire. She's with a couple of women, rummaging in a piece of the fuselage which broke off from the main section.

Over Jack's shoulder, Sayid and a few others lay tarps across angled sections of scrap. They look like blue water slides. Rainwater will flow down into collectors made of more tarps, set up in wooden frames.

Nobody calls Sayid “Mohammed” or “Al-Jazeerah” anymore.

Claire and the women have made quite a haul, boxes full of fresh fruit, oranges and apples. Another box has a cache of airplane peanuts.

“Plain, honey-roasted, and praline,” Hurley reads out loud. His mouth waters, but he doesn't take any.

* * * * * * * *

A tall, bald man named Kenneth has been traveling across the Pacific for the past three months, taking photos for nature magazines. He and two other men have missed Sayid's meeting, having been on a trek of their own, exploring the coastline.

Kenneth listens to Hurley's account of Sayid's speech, then remarks, “So that's all they had to say about their trip, eh?”

Hurley is suddenly very aware of three pairs of eyes, drilling into him. 

Kenneth puts his hands on his narrow hips, and in the same lazy voice says, “You know, on every island I've been to, the beaches all have some garbage. Plastic bags, cups, crates, you name it. But there's nothing here. Not a scrap.”

“How 'bout that,” Hurley says. He wants to offer something of his own to these men, something of value. “So, I guess you heard about the bear.”

“There are bears here?” another man says, his voice suddenly sharp. He's some kind of old hippie, long gray hair blowing about in the morning breeze.

“One, at least, up on the mountain.” Now Hurley's sorry he brought it up, because they all look skeptical. “It was white. Somebody said it was a polar bear, but that's crazy.”

“Not all white bears are polar bears,” the old hippie says. “Islands up by Vancouver have lots of them.”

“That where you're from?” Hurley asks.

The old hippie nods. “Name's Brian,” he says, offering his hand. His grip is like steel.

“Damn, we could use some bear meat,” the third man says, and the others voice their low agreement.

Kenneth still has something on his mind. “You know, a beach this gorgeous should be crawling with tourists.”

“Maybe it's, like, private,” Hurley offers. “What if some rich dude's got his own zoo here or something? That would explain the bear. And the animal noises.”

Kenneth nods, interested. “If it's a private zoo, then someone's here for sure. Caretakers, if nothing else.”

Hurley's touched, because he expected the men to laugh at his suggestion.

Kenneth has obviously decided something. “Let's head west this time, see where this shoreline goes.” He pauses, looking Hurley over with pointed scrutiny. “Want to come along?”

Suddenly Hurley feels young and pudgy, in contrast to their gray, lean masculinity. He can see himself bringing up the rear, puffing and out of breath. Unable to meet Kenneth's face, Hurley gazes over the wreckage-strewn beach for a few seconds.

Over by a fallen section of wing, Claire and Charlie are moving luggage with that abandoned wheelchair, the one nobody wants to touch because it's obvious that whoever needed it is long since gone. Claire smiles, running her hand through her hair as if a little nervous. Charlie gestures, full of lively animation. Inside, a sharp pain reminds Hurley of an old wound.

Kenneth's waiting for an answer, so Hurley says, “Nah, I'm in charge of cafeteria service. Maybe some other time.”

“You got it,” Kenneth says. 

“You guys, uh, want something before you go?”

“We'll forage along the way, man,” Brian says. “The shoreline's full of food.”

“Save it for the ones who need it,” Kenneth says. His eyes follow Hurley's over to Claire.

Turning their backs to the morning sun, the three men leave Hurley hollow and full of echoes, standing there in the sand.

* * * * * * * *

By the time Hurley makes it back to the bag-sorters, Charlie's gone. Hurley catches a glimpse of him heading into a dark thicket, where the jungle starts. Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go, Hurley figures.

Claire sits at the edge of the sorters. She scoots an open wheeled bag over towards him with her foot. “I think this is yours. There's no name on it, but—” She holds up an orange t-shirt big as a tent.

The handle of Hurley's carry-on bag has been sheared clean off, along with the name tag, but that shirt can't belong to anyone else. Hurley's used to being the biggest guy in the room, on the block, and now on this beach. It stings a little, though, because he's still thinking about the older men, all hard muscle and self-assurance. Somehow in his mind they line up with Charlie, and the smile he put on Claire's face.

“That'd be mine,” he says, trying not to sound disappointed. “Thanks.”

It's not the bag Hurley really wanted, though. At the airport he'd checked his bigger blue suitcase, the one full of new clothes. Really sharp stuff, which he'd bought right before leaving LA for Sydney. This carry-on one just has some cargoes, t-shirts, faded board shorts. 

Claire checked two bags besides her carry-on satchel, and this one isn't the one she wants, either.

"Got a hairbrush in there?" she asks Hurley. 

He roots around in the suitcase, but nothing turns up. His brush must have been in the checked bag, too. Secretly he's glad, because he doesn't want her to use his hairbrush. God knows when he cleaned it last. So he just grunts, non-committal. 

There's something else he's looking for, and there, at the very bottom, he finds it. “Dude,” he whispers. It's his Sony Walkman, headphones, and a fully-loaded CD case. He had put in fresh batteries twenty minutes before the plane broke up. “Hey, Claire, look at this.”

She smiles, not so bright as before, but happy for him.

* * * * * * * *

The sunset is the most beautiful the survivors have seen so far, a riot of red and gold glory. No one can enjoy it, though, because the wounded marshal begins to scream.

* * * * * * * *

After the sun goes down, Claire huddles in their sleeping spot, her body curled up like a shrimp around her belly. The luggage which made up their “fort” has all been moved, leaving only their three lone bags. Their shelter looks naked and exposed now, defenseless.

All the luggage on the beach, though, won't protect them from the sound of a dying man's agony. 

An idea comes to Hurley. “Here, take these,” he says, handing Claire his headphones. He empties the Walkman of Damien Rice's O, shoving it into an empty sleeve in the CD case. Not that one. Anything else, but not that.

In the firelight, he flips through one CD after another. Ah, here's one. American Beauty, by the Grateful Dead. Easy, laid back. She'll like it.

Claire shortens the headphones while Hurley loads up the Walkman, setting the volume high enough that the sounds from the medical tent are muted, but not so loud that she can't get to sleep. 

When she relaxes into the gentle nonsense of “Box of Rain,” he slips away to tell Jack about how Kate's been walking around with a gun jammed into the back of her jeans. Somebody has to.

* * * * * * * *

Hurley's too late, though. He and Jack stand outside the medical tent, helpless, while Kate exits, leaving the gurgling, dying marshal inside. She hesitates for a moment, as if waiting for something. When the sound of gunfire rings out from inside the tent, Hurley gives a terrified jump. Kate sends a blank gaze to Hurley and Jack both, then walks away.

Shame washes over Hurley, because his first thought isn't for the marshal, but how glad he is that Kate isn't the one who shot him. It's Sawyer who staggers out of the infirmary tent, pistol in hand, mumbling excuses. Leaving Jack to clean up the mess.

When the gasping, gurgling marshal finally falls silent, Hurley doesn't stick around to comfort Jack, or to confront him either. 

Everyone in camp has heard the report of the gun. They all know what the silence from the medical tent implies. Hurley thumps across the sand, dodging debris and peoples' shelters in an effort to get back to his own. 

Claire's cries fill the deadly night with life as she calls out, “Hurley! Hurley!”

The headphones lie in the sand where she's dropped them. He collapses beside her, not sure at first what to do. When she rests her head on his thigh and clings tightly to the leg of his shorts, he's almost too surprised to speak. He's afraid to touch her. When he gets his voice back, he tells her that the marshal is dead. 

"Someone shot him," Claire says in a strangled whisper. "Was it Jack? Did Jack shoot him?"  
Hurley thanks heaven that he doesn't have to lie. "No."

She doesn't ask who did. That suits Hurley fine, because he doesn't want to tell her that Sawyer fired the gun and botched it. That the doc who might deliver her baby was the one who eased the marshal into eternal silence.

A faint buzz comes from the headphones, Jerry Garcia on endless loop. Hurley can't reach the "Off" switch, but not even the prospect of dead batteries can make him move, so long as Claire's head rests on his leg. 

Gradually Claire's death-grip on Hurley's cargo shorts relaxes. He leans back against the cold fuselage metal and looks skyward. He can sleep sitting up. No biggie.

Black clouds blanket the sky, taking the usual Milky Way light show off the air. Welcome silence descends onto the beach.

( _continued_ )


	4. Heart Line

Dawn struggles through gray fog as Hurley wakes to find his and Claire's middles squashed together. As he pulls himself away, trying not to wake her, the sand behind him thumps a few times. Footsteps, and from their irregular sound, someone's trying to be quiet. Stealthy, even. A friend, though, because the footsteps sound familiar. 

A hand comes down lightly on Hurley's shoulder, followed by a gentle shake. Jack stands before him, shrouded by milky light. It's plain that he hasn't slept, and dark stubble dots his pale cheeks. When Jack beckons, Hurley rolls to his feet as quietly as he can. 

It's not until beach becomes jungle that Jack finally speaks. “I thought I could manage this myself, but I dropped him.”

The marshal's body lies in a heap, his shirt and pants smudged with dirt and leaf litter. Two makeshift shovels lie nearby, metal from the plane fixed onto stout branches. Without TV, there's not much to do, so people have been cobbling tools together.

“Oh, no,” Hurley half-whispers.

“Please,” Jack says. He shouldn't look this exhausted first thing in the morning, but he does. 

“What about Sawyer? I mean, it's his mess too.”

All Jack says again is, “Please.”

The rising sun lights the humid air from within. If Jack and Hurley don't want the whole group to wake up and know what's going on, they'll have to work fast.

As they pass the pit latrine, the stench is terrible. “We could use some powdered lime,” Jack says.

“We could use a lot of things,” Hurley replies. “Like rescue.”

They lay the marshal down in a clearing full of trees right out of Jurassic Park, with leafy fronds that rise out of giant pineapples. The ground is soft, not sandy like the beach, but after they've dug down about three feet, Jack stops to wipe his drenched face. They've forgotten to bring water.

“What about six feet under?” Hurley says. He's glad to stop, because it's oppressively hot for so early in the morning. Worse, the marshal is starting to attract flies. Lots of flies. 

Jack shakes his head, faintly swaying. After they cover the body he says, “Not a word to anyone.”

“Not even Kate?”

“Especially not Kate.”

Hurley would like to remark that secrets can kill whatever two people have going between them, but the words die in his mouth. He isn't one to talk. No one on the beach really knows him, not even Jack. Best to change the subject. “Aren't you, uh, gonna say something? Over him, I mean.”

Apparently not. Jack squats down on a nearby log, head in his hands. It's left to Hurley to stumble his way through the Salve Regina.

Slowed down by heat and dehydration, they walk back to the beach. Jack says, “You like her, don't you?”

“Who? Kate? Sure, she's all right.” He's still treasuring the sweet relief that it wasn't Kate who fired that terrible shot the night before.

Jack gives a quiet laugh. “Claire. I meant Claire.”

Hurley's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He turns away, ashamed of his red, sweaty mess of a face. Jack must have gotten an eyeful of him and Claire in their shelter, big bellies jammed together. He probably thought Hurley had planned it that way, which wasn't true at all. 

Hurley's still flailing inside when Jack says, “She's going to need a lot of help in the weeks ahead. And more when the baby comes.” Jack rests, propping himself on his upper legs, sapped of energy. His dark eyes pierce Hurley like arrows. He doesn't have to add, _Are you up for that?_

The unspoken question hangs over Hurley like a sword.

* * * * * * * *

The deeper regions of the jungle are full of inviting trees and cool shadows, but Claire doesn't enter. To escape the heat, she retreats to a clump of feather-leaved trees right at the forest's edge, where green-lobed bushes dot the ground.

Hurley joins her, trying to stay out of sight. People look to him for meals, but the second-wind bounty of airline food is gone. Unless people catch something, there will be no supper tonight. While Kate, Kenneth, and a few others have started foraging in the near jungle, most survivors distrust it. 

Claire doesn't go hungry tonight, though, because Hurley offers her the last airplane meal.

“I don't think I can eat this, when other people don't have anything,” she says.

“Nobody else here has, um—”

“A baby. Yeah, I know.”

The thin slices of chicken have dried stiff in the hot salt air. As she chews, she can feel Hurley watch her. He must be ravenous, given his size and how energetically he works throughout the day. She offers him the sliced carrots and half of a dinner roll twice-baked from the heat. He says no, looking away.

She dips the roll into some water to soften it. It's the only way she can manage to get it down. All too soon the food is gone. Carefully she cleans the tray first with her finger, then her tongue.

There's at least an hour until twilight. The roving, restless movements of people on the beach show that they're hungry, and frustrated. 

So is she. “I've got an idea,” she says. “How'd you like me to read your palm?”

He hesitates, nervous. Oh, no, he's going to think she's stupid, or worse. But there's more to it, clearly.

After four days, all the two of them have exchanged have been first names and cities. Claire, Sydney. Hurley, LA. She's heard some weird Yank names in her time, but never one like his. She wonders if it's even real. She doesn't know anything about him at all.

He knows her name, her address, even, because everything's written in plain block letters right across the tags of her luggage. 

Whatever he doesn't want her to know, he fears it will be written on his palm, as clearly as it's written on his broad, anxious face.

She grows a little cold inside, resistant. She's been sleeping with him for three nights. No, sleeping beside him. That's different. Still, he could be anybody. Nor has she pushed the questions, because if he tells her anything about himself, she'll have to reciprocate, and she doesn't want to talk about Thomas.

(Whose last words to her still lash her ears. He didn't even help her with the heavy suitcase as she dragged it down the stairs, moving the last of her stuff out of his flat. Such a big change from how Thomas used to pull out chairs for her, open car doors, all la-di-da until push came to shove. Then it was all, _Babe, you remember how we talked about being free? Well, I never changed. You did._ ) 

Thus she hasn't asked. Instead, she's been content to lie against Hurley at night without question, the painful spasms in her lower back soothed by the pillow of his stomach. She knows he responds to her, but he never presses into her, never pulls her towards him. He just lies there, waiting until she enters the warm radius of his belly. 

If the night is sticky and breeze-less, if she scoots half a meter out because his heat is too much to bear, he doesn't protest. Sometimes she feels a little guilty for using him for a human hot water bottle. But relief for stiff muscles isn't all she gets from this.

Now Hurley's frowning, and a sharp little fear stabs her. What's she gone and done? Has she turned him against her, so that he might leave her, find himself another camping spot?

The moment passes, and he extends his hand. “Sure. Why not?” 

In the approaching evening, she can barely see the lines on his palm. It doesn't matter, for she doesn't try to interpret them at first. Instead, she simply holds his hand in both of hers, not thinking, just feeling.

His hand is big, proportioned to the rest of him. She expects it to be as soft as the rest of him, but it's not. This is a man who's done a lot of manual work. His skin is laced with tiny pink scars, too well-healed to be from the plane crash. Her Gramps used to get cuts like that from changing broken fan belts. Replacing carburetors on rusted tractors. Getting hit by steaming radiator fluid when the old four-by overheated.

Little dry alligator webs criss-cross his skin. Her own hands used to shrivel like that when she worked in the fish-fry restaurant. She quit that job a month before the trip to LA, and it took weeks to soften her hands again.

She runs her fingers over Hurley's rough skin, as if her fingers can discover what neither of them want to tell the other. It's too intimate, so she reluctantly turns his hand over. “Let's give it a go, shall we?”

His nervous laugh sounds more like a giggle. She strokes the fleshy ball of his thumb, the Mount of Venus, and he doesn't so much tremble as vibrate, as if trying to fight a strong swell of feeling and failing.

To steady herself, she studies his palm. It's incomprehensible to her, and she realizes that the books won't help. As her confidence flags, Aunt Lindsey's words come back to her. A poser, her aunt once called her. A New Age phony.

Aunt Lindsey is a nurse who takes care of really sick babies, the kind born so early nobody expects them to live. Her words ring in Claire's ears. _How do you think we keep them alive, Claire? Not by claptrap like this, but through science. The way they're keeping your mother alive._

Claire's out of her depth, and she knows it. As if the mysteries of palmistry, or astrology, or the unopened pack of tarot cards in her bag could be decoded by some easily explained, mass-market cipher. 

His life line is deeply etched around the thick ball of his thumb. It digs down into his hand in a strong unbroken fissure and passes his wrist. She didn't think a life line could extend that far.

“So, that bad?” He's trying to sound casual, barely disguising the tension beneath.

She hopes he doesn't ask for a number. “You're going to live a long time.”

He laughs, nervous. “I bet you say that to everyone.”

Thankfully, she's never seen a short life-line. How _would_ she tell someone? 

She moves over to his line of Apollo, which starts up past the base of his ring finger before sweeping downward across the plain of his palm. Rich, it says, or soon will be. Filthy rich, loaded, beyond the dreams of avarice, all the old cliches.

“What line's that?” he asks.

“Prosperity. You know, money. How well you'll do.”

That naked fear flashes across his face again. What the hell is going on here? Most people would prefer to hear that they weren't always going to be poor. She decides to soft-pedal it. “Let's put it this way, you'll never go broke. You'll always be comfortable.”

He doesn't answer, just side-eyes her distrustfully. 

Time to change the subject. “So, here's your heart line.”

“Dude. We have heart disease in my family.” Now he looks pale and worried.

“Well, let's just have a look.” As big as he is, and with a family history, how can he have that life line? “We'll just focus on your love life,” she says, trying to sound light.

At once she's embarrassed right along with him. The mirror of his palm reflects both their faces as they stare into it.

“Early on, your heart line's sketchy in places. You've had false starts. Things that didn't work out. Missed opportunities. Disappointments.” She doesn't want to tell him that kind of line portends heart disease as well. Again, she soft-pedals. “But later on...” 

Her voice trails off as she traces his heart line with her finger. Sweet feeling flows through her, the concentrated essence of every love song but with all the sap and gush skimmed off. 

She's left the guide-books behind, abandoned the notes. She has no navigator but her own heart, which points to the line which governs his. Not just love, either. Desire deep and strong as an underground river runs through her. In the darkening air her face grows hot, and she hopes he can't see it.

She stumbles over the words. “Later on, a good marriage, and a long one.”

He doesn't say anything, just gives a deep sigh. At least he doesn't pull his hand away. No longer reading, she strokes his palm just for the pleasure of running her fingers over his skin. 

“Any of this ringing a bell?” she says.

When he doesn't answer, she kicks herself inside. Oh great, she's wrong after all, maybe about all of it, and he's too kind to say so. So with a sinking feeling she says, “Look, it's just for fun, right?” Only it doesn't feel like fun, but rather as if something deep and serious has just passed between them, something she doesn't quite understand.

His voice isn't loud, but when he speaks she jumps all the same. “Let's just say I'm still in the false-start phase.”

Claire looks down at her stomach. “Me too. Been there, done that, got the baby to prove it.”

He doesn't react.

Disappointed, she lets go of his hand. It's the first time she's acknowledged her predicament, and she wishes she hadn't gone even to that short length. She's balanced on a knife's edge, ready to tip at any moment, and who knows where she'll land.

In her carry-on bag there's a journal, where angry black words are written so hard into the paper that they might have been carved there. She thought things would work out once, that someone who appeared kind could be trusted. Look how wrong she was.

* * * * * * * *

In the middle of the night, Claire drags herself out of sleep to the sound of a dog yapping. It's Vincent, the fat yellow Labrador. Something's got him going, and soon his barks take on a shrieking quality. Claire pulls herself to her feet, still half-dreaming, while Hurley surges up behind her.

Suddenly everyone around them scrambles in terror to and fro, hysterical. A herd of small black boar pour from the fuselage, and they smell dreadful. Their squeals sound like children screaming. They turn on their trotters and run, knocking a few people down on the way, before darting off into the dense black night.

It's over almost before the castaways know it. Far away, deep in the jungle, Claire can still hear the pounding of their hooves.

In the midst of this chaos, Claire and Hurley crawl back to their tiny island of stability. All around them, people are whispering. A rising wind blows away most of the stench, but a foul mist still hangs over the fuselage.

( _continued_ )


	5. Works of Mercy

Early the next morning, Jack doesn't have to nag the survivors to gather wood to burn the fuselage. Ever since the herd of boar ravaged the dead inside, the wreckage has stunk like an open grave. People wrap their faces with cloths, but it doesn't help. On the bright side, the revolting stench has killed everyone's appetite.

Well, mostly everyone's.

At first Claire shakes off Hurley's offer to carry her load of firewood. "I'm useless enough as it is.” 

When she staggers, he shoulders her bundle with little effort. Trying to save face, she says, "It's just that I'm so famished."

Of course she's hungry. Hurley's already tightened his own belt a notch, not that anyone would notice. But Claire's another story. He studies her arms, slender almost a week ago, but now stick-like. Her black skirt hangs on her vanishing hips. When he first saw her, her face bore the soft roundness of late pregnancy. Now her cheekbones stand out, as does the sharp angle of her jaw.

A dreadful thought comes to him. The baby's eating her from the inside out, devouring her substance. It's a weird idea, foreign to him, because he likes children, even if the whole baby-birthing thing terrifies him.

"I'm gonna check something out," Hurley tells her.

At first he's calm and reasonable with Sawyer, who has a backpack full of airline peanuts. When Sawyer makes a rude remark about how Claire isn't the only one "eating for two," Hurley loses it and lunges for the backpack. It's dumb, boneheaded, but he can't help himself. He's so numb from hunger that he barely feels it anymore. What lashes him on is the desperate look on Claire's face.

Hurley's about to cut loose on Sawyer in payback for "Lardo," for all the snide up-and-down glares, the snickers that Hurley's convinced are directed towards him. When he gives Sawyer's arm a hard yank, Hurley can tell that Sawyer doesn't really want to hit him back, doesn't deep down want this fight. 

Hurley would have won, too, gotten the pack and passed out the rest of the nuts, had Jack not broken it up. Now the secret's out to the whole group. There's no food left, none. Grumbling, Sawyer stretches out in an airline seat, face set in disgust.

Suddenly, that weird bald guy Locke sends a hunting knife flying across the beach. Sawyer goes pale beneath the dirt and stubble as the knife quivers barely a hand's width from his head.

Even after Locke puts together a group of hunters and leaves, Hurley can tell that Sawyer's still shaken up. He decides to press his advantage. "Listen, dude, you don't wanna give me peanuts, that's cool. Just toss Claire a couple packs, okay?"

"What am I, the charity wagon?" Sawyer growls. But he scrutinizes Claire for a few seconds, as she talks to Boone and Shannon. 

Later, Claire stands alone in the ocean as she does every morning. Hurley watches Sawyer hand her a brimming handful of peanut packages, then stalks away before she can even thank him.

* * * * * * * *

Hurley hauls wood until his shoulders ache. Every time he thinks he can't carry one more load, he considers the alternative. A work crew rummages through the main part of the fuselage, cloths wrapped around their faces as they pull out the remaining luggage and supplies. It refreshes him enough to haul another armful. Anything beats entering that death-in-a-can.

Even his strength gives out, eventually. He sits drenched in sweat, emptying one Oceanic water bottle after another, wondering when it's going to rain again. The water in their tarp reservoirs is getting pretty low. That doesn't stop him from downing another liter in the heat.

Then, sweet surprise, Claire's sitting next to him, flushed and red. He gives her the rest of his water bottle, remembering to wipe it off first on his shirt. Not that it matters, with how drenched he is.

"Thanks.” She hands him a couple packages of peanuts. Praline, his favorite.

"Those were for you," he protests before tearing them open. In two bites they're gone. Sugar rushes to his head and he's never tasted anything so delicious. He's so busy enjoying the sensation that he doesn't hear her at first.

"...So Boone and I, we were talking about how we just can't burn those poor people. We need to say something about them, over them. Jack doesn't want to, he's—"

"He's got so much going on. Dude's flaming out like a Fourth of July sparkler."

"I know. So I thought that maybe—"

"Sure, Claire. Count me in."

"Shana, Doug and I, we're still looking through the wallets, passports, things like that."

She is so sweet and earnest, and a surge of tender feeling fills him. "It beats hauling wood, right?"

"That's great, Hurley. You and Boone and me, let's get together at sunset and talk about what to do. I'll go run and tell him."

As she heads back to the wreckage, Hurley's heart sings at the bounce in her step, the way her hair floats like a golden cloud lifted by the ocean breeze. Her sad purpose seems to lift her spirits. Works of mercy, his Grandma Titi called them. Corporal and spiritual works of mercy, to bury and pray for the dead.

All at once, shouts ring out through the survivors. John Locke has returned with a dead boar, its black hair drenched in blood. Everyone crowds around him, but Hurley doesn't want to see what's coming next. 

Locke hauls the boar to the edge of the camp and hangs it by its rear legs. Then, as if he's done this every day of his life, he makes a long, decisive slice from the boar's anus to its throat. Guts spill out onto the sand and lie twitching at Locke's feet.

Hurley turns away, nauseated. Rose and Faith start yelling at Locke for letting a good thirty pounds of fat and offal lie there in the sand, just going to waste. Kenneth and Brian sort through the organs, naming them one after another like an anatomy lesson: heart, lungs, stomach, brains.

Locke scoffs that they don't need to eat that junk. There will be more boar. The jungle is full of them.

In between peeks, Hurley watches Rose and Faith clean steaming piles of guts in a tub of ocean water. 

Brian takes the head and begins to chisel through the skull for the brains. "We can use it to tan this hide.”

Someone says that an animal doesn't really have enough brains to tan its own hide. It's just an old wives' tale.

“Then we'll use piss,” Kenneth says.

Hurley's luck is with him, because he doesn't throw up.

* * * * * * * *

Night has fallen. The memorial service is over, but the fuselage still burns.

The castaways have toasted slivers of fatty pig meat on sticks. The large hams and shoulders will smoke all night in a pit. Hurley has almost forgotten what it feels like to have enough to eat for once. He stretches out in their shelter, relishing the feeling of fullness. 

Claire tosses about, restless. "I never thought I'd say this since we crashed, but I'm stuffed. I overdid it, I think.”

It's amazing, Hurley thinks, the security that having a little food brings. He leans back, bathed in optimism, but Claire's not comfortable. 

She shifts again, grimacing in pain each time. "It's my back. It's squeezing me like pincers."

"Do I need to get Jack?" Hurley hopes he doesn't, because no one's seen Jack since their feast of boar. He didn't show at all when they read the names of the dead.

"I must have thrown something out of joint gathering firewood. Then there was all that standing during the memorial service."

"You sure it's not, you know, the baby?"

Her face twists at another spasm. "It doesn't feel like a contraction."

“My Grandpa Tito would lift hundred-pound bags of cement, stuff like that, and when his back would act up, my grandma, she'd help him out."

"Help him out how?"

Hurley stops, suddenly embarrassed. The word “massage” has sleazy connotations, and every one of them implies groping masked as innocence. Instead of speaking, he holds up his hands, fingers spread out, hoping he won't have to explain.

She gets it. "Sure, go ahead."

"Okay, roll over." On her lower back, the spine curves inward from the strain of all that baby. At first he simply rests his hands there, warming her skin and the knotted muscles beneath. “This okay?”

"Ummm.”

That's his cue to go on. Gently he kneads, working his fingers outward from her spine to the wings of her hips. As her muscles relax, he imagines the pain seeping into the air above, the sand beneath. 

Again he rests his hands across her lower back, letting heat and pressure do the work. Slowly he alternates pressing, then releasing. He takes his time, trying to be as patient and gentle as he can. He can do this all night, as long as it takes. As long as she wants.

Claire gives little murmurs of pleasure, then falls quiet. Hurley rests his hand on her hip as he drifts into sleep.

* * * * * * * *

In the dead of night, Claire wakes Hurley, making him jump with fear. She sits bolt upright, hands wrapped around her belly, gasping. 

The fuselage still drenches the camp with yellow light, a demonic candle of human fat and meat. Claire's face looks ghastly, and the round dome of her belly shakes with spasms.

"What'd you _do_?" she wails.

"What?" He cringes under her words, worse than a slap.

"What'd you do to me? It's squeezing me like a vise."

He's sick with guilt and confusion. "Nothing. It was just a back-rub."

A couple of people near them stir. Oh, God, it's those women, the ones who go everywhere together. The ones even that jerk Sawyer won't mess with. The ones Claire sits with, talks to all day.

"Claire, honey, you all right?" one of them calls over.

Hurley heaves to his feet. "Shana, could you, uh, sit with Claire? I'm gonna go get Jack."

"I don't need Jack," Claire protests. "I just—" Her belly shakes again, and she tries hard to catch her breath.

Kate zeroes in on them like a torpedo. “Claire? Claire, honey?”

Great, that's all Hurley needs, to wake up the whole camp. Kate's not with Jack, though, which surprises Hurley. "You seen Jack?" he asks.

She just shakes her head, _No_ , then rushes to Claire. Shana flanks Claire's other side, and hands her some water.

Hurley sets off to find Jack.

Down the beach a solitary fire burns. Before it someone sits, deep in shadow. Hurley's heart sinks because the small figure in the dark hoodie isn't Jack, not by a long shot.

It's Charlie, gazing into the fire, completely chill. In fact, he looks zoned out with eyes glazed, jaw hanging slightly open. Hurley has to jab him in the shoulder to get his attention.

"Hey..." Charlie's voice trails off, light as the smoke rising from his fire.

"Dude, I'm looking for Jack. You seen him?"

Charlie's eyes finally focus. "What d'ya need Jack for, mate?"

"It's Claire, she's... Um, look, have you seen him or not?"

"What, she having the kid?" Charlie doesn't seem scared at all. In fact, he seems downright interested.

"I dunno. Maybe."

"Well, you're in luck. Babies are my speciality. My Aunt Mabel had six, and when they got fussy, guess who got to dandle them on his knee—" Charlie tries to pull himself to his feet, but slides back down.

Charlie's still struggling when Hurley says, "It's okay. There's Jack now."

Jack emerges from a stretch of jungle on the opposite side of the camp. What the hell is he doing out in the dark at this time? Behind Hurley, Charlie mutters something unfriendly. Hurley is sorry to blow him off like that, but there's only one thing on his mind right now.

"Jack, dude," he huffs. "Claire, she's... Can you just take a look at her, okay?"

Something chills Hurley to the bone. Jack doesn't head towards Hurley and Claire's shelter. He doesn't say anything at all. Instead, he just stands frozen in the sickly fuselage glow, his skin like wax. Finally he gazes skyward, where bursts of yellow sparks rise like clouds.

Hurley's genuinely frightened now. "Jack, are you all right?" 

Jack doesn't answer.

Luckily, by the time he reaches Claire and Hurley's shelter, he's lost that haunted look. When he kneels before Claire and barks out questions, he's his old self. "When did this start? Are you in pain? Did your water break?"

Claire shakes her head, no, there's no pain, just pressure. Terrible pressure. Her water didn't break, and whatever it was, it seems to have stopped.

In a clipped voice, Jack says, "Probably just Braxton-Hicks. Try to drink more." 

His look to Hurley says, _You dragged me over here for this?_

"What's Braxton-Hicks?" Claire says in a choked voice.

Jack's already excusing himself. "False labor.”

Kate gets up and follows Jack towards the water, talking energetically while he strides forward, silent and distracted.

Shana rejoins Kathy and the rest of her friends.

Claire still sits upright, red-faced and fighting back tears. Hurley has never seen her angry. She seems to direct her fury not just at him, but herself, too: humiliation for having bothered Jack with a false alarm, at the baby that's coming whether she's ready for it or not, at the stone-hard fact that they haven't been rescued.

Maybe if she cried, maybe Hurley could break through the thick, gluey air which holds him fast, unmoving, unspeaking. Maybe he could reach out, take her in his arms, touch her on purpose rather than relying on soft accidental collisions in the night. Or a back-rub that seemed to have gotten the baby-stuff started all over again.

If only he could stroke her hair, tell her that everything was going to be all right, that whatever happened, they didn't have to go through it alone. That he'd be there for her.

Since she doesn't cry, he doesn't say any of these things. She turns her small pointed face towards him just as she did five days ago in the burning wreckage. Only now, instead of blinding sunlight, her face is washed in the greasy light of a trash-can fire from hell's own street-corner.

Her expression appeals to him once more, but there's a hardness too, full of frightened challenge. Something collapses inside Hurley. As his resolve gives way, he hates himself for being so tentative, so afraid to meet her gaze.

She shows him her back as she rolls over. From her stiff breathing he knows she's not asleep.

More than once in his troubled school life, Hurley would walk into a classroom completely unprepared, not even knowing there would be a test until the blank paper sat on the desk before him. Chewed pencil in hand, he would stare at an empty space demanding to be filled with words, or mathematical expressions demanding solutions which never came.

It's like that now. Testing time is up before he knows it, and the page he hands to some invisible teacher is as blank as Claire's silent back.

( _continued_ )


	6. Time Bombs of Responsibility

The fuselage continues to smolder in the gray dawn. Heat radiates from the scorched metal in waves, rippling the air and making sweat pour down the survivors' faces. Long dark streaks soak their shirts.

Yellow sunlight floods the morning, and the clear blue sky gleams innocent of a single cloud. A week of living on this beach has put the survivors in tune with one another in ways they've never experienced. They think the same things, finish each other's sentences. Today, everyone wonders when in the hell it's going to rain.

Even standing at the sea's edge doesn't cool Claire. The water seems to call out to her, saying, _Come in deeper. You've body-surfed since childhood. Imagine waves lapping over your head, the sweet release of one after another carrying you away. Come on in. The water's fine._

Claire isn't the only one lured by the sea on this torrid morning. A lean, brown-haired woman named Joanna darts past Claire. She dives into the choppy surf, where her neat strokes carry her farther and farther from shore. Claire sighs with envy.

She's too busy feeling sorry for herself to hear Joanna's thin, plaintive cries, almost drowned out by the wind and waves. Boone pushes past Claire, stripping off his polo shirt, and even the terror of the moment can't blunt Claire's artist's eye. He's the perfect kouros, waiting to be carved in marble, but that doesn't matter now. Boone is a lifeguard, and someone needs saving.

It doesn't work out that way, because Boone starts to drown, too. 

After Jack drags him back to shore, after everyone realizes that Joanna is doomed, they shuffle about and talk in low, anxious tones. The sense of death hangs heavy in the air.

It's different than when the marshal died. People liked Joanna, especially Kate. When the two of them chatted about scuba diving, or how to get a particularly skittish horse to accept the bridle, Claire would listen quietly, feeling very left out. Now Joanna's gone, just like that.

The ocean pulls on Claire's legs and she backs up, suddenly afraid. Its siren call no longer seems so inviting.

Locke unearths a couple of smoking hams from the baking pit. As he doles out one slice after another, he lectures anyone who'll listen about how the pit is called an imu, how Polynesians across the Pacific used them for centuries. He even offers Claire two pieces of meat just as Hurley would have, but she refuses.

For one thing, the false labor has gotten worse. For another, the sight of the fatty meat only makes her thirstier. 

In between bites Hurley says, "Who is that guy?" No one knows any more about John Locke than they did yesterday.

Claire gives Hurley a long, cool look, maybe even a bit critical, as she pulls away from him inside. What is he to her, anyway, this nervous and shy stranger? She can't find a box big enough to squeeze him into. 

Down at the shore, Jack and Kate share their breakfast of sliced ham and the star fruit which Kate foraged. Kate leans over to Jack with the same warm concern she showed Claire last night. Then Jack gets up and paces the beach, his steps dragging in the sand, and Kate follows him. 

Claire's not jealous of how Kate's captured Jack's attention, not really. Rather, she envies how Kate never seems to second-guess her free-and-easy gestures, without worrying that she'll get dumped, left behind. Or so it seems, anyway.

Hurley brings Claire some water, then scoots off as if he has places to go, people to see. It chafes Claire like the ever-present heat, and she tells herself to stop being silly. What does she want him to do, anyway? 

Faith and Craig walk by, wrapped in each other's arms, exchanging little pecks and nuzzles as they head up the strand. After the memorial service, the noises from behind their tarp were unmistakable. Well, weddings and funerals make people bang like screen doors in the wind, don't they?

Not Claire, though. After she yelled at Hurley last night for getting her “baby stuff” going, he moved his blanket away from her a meter or so. Still nearby, but giving her plenty of space.

Claire doesn't blame him. At this point she'd move away from her, too, with her greasy hair and unwashed face. Her hands and ankles are puffy, and she's had to take off most of her rings. 

Not only that, her mouth tastes like birdcage liner. Sawyer has hogged all the toothpaste, and none of the women will ask him for any, not since he practically propositioned Shannon in return for some bug repellent.

On top of everything else, Claire's hugely pregnant. In the past week, the baby seems to have ballooned. It's bad enough that she can barely get up and down. The baby seems to have wedged himself right down between her legs, making it hard to walk. Worst of all, she's got another month of this at least. How the hell is she going to get through it?

No wonder Hurley won't make a move. She must be gruesome.

* * * * * * * *

Over by the medical tent Hurley and Charlie talk to Jack. Hurley's got that serious look again, the one where he seems to carry the world's weight on his wide shoulders. 

Bored, stiff-hipped, Claire pulls herself to her feet. Kate sits by the remaining unsorted suitcases, making piles. It's rare to find Kate in one place and alone, so Claire lowers herself down.

They start off awkwardly. When Claire offers to read Kate's natal chart and Kate refuses, Claire just wants to crawl off with her tail between her legs. Then she kicks herself inside and pushes forth. “Kate, I'm sorry about Joanna. I know she was your friend—”

“Thanks,” Kate says, abrupt.

Discouraged, Claire goes on. “Shana and Kathy, they found her stuff over there by the wing section. I thought maybe you'd like to go through it, pull a few things out for her people. You know, when we get rescued.”

“I'll do that. Thanks.”

There doesn't seem to be much else to say. Claire steels herself for the struggle to her feet, when in an unexpected moment of intimacy, Kate says, “I'm worried about Jack.” 

“Why?”

Kate goes on how he doesn't sleep, hasn't eaten, thinks he has to do everything alone. “I don't understand it. I'd help. We all would.”

“It's not like I can do much.”

Kate picks up a purple spaghetti-strap halter decorated with sequins. “People need breathable clothes in light colors, not stuff like this.” They both laugh as Kate tosses it into the “impractical” pile.

Heat hits Claire like a wave, and the beach wavers, even though she's sitting down. “I need to find some nappies.”

“Excuse me?” Kate says, puzzled.

“Nappies, you know. For the baby.”

“Oh, right. Diapers. I'll keep an eye open.”

Suddenly Claire has an overwhelming urge to explain. “I used to paint, you know. Sets, props, for the Sydney Regional Theater. I even went on-stage sometimes.” The tears rush up, thick and unbidden. “I wasn't always this... parasite, needing everybody to wait on me. To come to my rescue in the middle of the night.”

“You don't have to apologize. You were scared. Of course Jack was going to help.”

“It's just that—” The harder Claire tries to not get emotional, the more she does. “Oh, bother, you can't want to listen to this.”

Kate uses a tone of quiet command much like Aunt Lindsey's. “Claire, are things going okay with you and Hurley?”

“With what? Oh, yeah. He's, um, you know, a friend.”

“A friend,” Kate repeats.

“That's right.” Even as Claire says it, it feels like a betrayal. She thinks of the couples on the beach, then Hurley's sensitive palm, his warm, rough hand. Flustered, she turns the tables on Kate. “What about Jack? He dashed out of here earlier, didn't he?”

Now it's Kate's turn to wear a blank, vague look. “Like you said, a friend.”

Claire isn't satisfied. “More than that, I'd say.”

Kate stares out to sea, abstracted, then in a faraway voice says, “There's not really a word for it, is there?”

Before Claire can agree or disagree, another wave of dizziness hits her. Since she doesn't want to be sick in front of Kate, she just grunts out, “Gotta go.” 

Making a bee-line for the trees, she almost stumbles over Michael's kid Walt, busy building a sand castle. She never even reaches the edge of the beach. 

As Claire slumps to the sandy ground, trees whirl above her head. The last thing she sees is Walt peering down at her, saying, “Hey, pregnant lady, you okay?” 

Everything fades from sunlit green to black.

* * * * * * * *

Hurley shapes a forked stick into a dowsing rod with one of Locke's borrowed knives. Much to Hurley's surprise, Locke didn't laugh at the suggestion. Locke even offers to go with Hurley into the jungle, show him how it's done.

“It takes a special person to use one of these,” Locke says. All at once Hurley's flesh crawls, and he's not sure he wants to go into the woods alone with Locke. 

Once in a while Hurley looks up from his whittling, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jack, but he's nowhere to be seen. When Hurley asks Locke where Jack is, Locke makes this Yoda-face and says, “Jack's exactly where he needs to be.”

“Thanks,” Hurley says, meaning anything but. “If I wanted a fortune cookie, I'd call for take-out.”

“I like Chinese food, too,” Locke says. His warm tone makes Hurley think that maybe Old Baldy isn't so bad after all.

At once, Hurley sees Claire lying on the grass limp as a fish, with Michael, Walt, Kate, and Charlie clustered around her. Hurley's about to rush over there too, when Locke puts a restraining hand on his arm.

“She's going to need water,” Locke says. 

“It's in the medical tent,” Hurley says, giving Locke the side-eye.

“Not any more. It's gone on a walkabout. You're going to have to find her some elsewhere.” That order given, Locke heads off into the jungle.

Water, on a walkabout? Locke's spooky-shaman voice gets Hurley's attention, though. He runs from shelter to shelter, but no one has any water. Charlie and Kate disappear with Claire into the medical tent, and Hurley pushes back a surge of jealousy. 

All avenues exhausted, Hurley heads to where the Asian couple have camped away from everyone else. Jin stares at Hurley with hard contempt, while his gorgeous wife stands a few paces behind, eyes downcast. As Hurley desperately tries to explain, he swears he sees flickers of understanding in Sun's eyes, but she says nothing.

Maybe by accident, or maybe not, Sun stumbles a bit, kicking a box to one side. Behind it, three half-filled Oceanic Airline bottles lie in the sand.

Jin turns to his wife, yelling at her in Chinese or something. Her apologies can be understood in any language, though. As Jin makes her cover up the water, Hurley beats a hasty retreat.

He races back to the medical tent, then stops dead two-thirds of the way there. A revived Claire is talking to Charlie, and her smile stops Hurley cold. She even has the energy to laugh a little. The two of them look as if they're sharing some delightful private joke.

As flushed and exhausted as Claire is, there's a lightness about her which Hurley hasn't seen before. Charlie looks as if he hasn't a care in the world, and neither should she.

One part of Hurley wants to barge into the medical tent and break that quiet moment into a million pieces. Another part says that there's no point, because he has nothing to offer her. No water, because he's afraid of Jin's hard fists and even harder eyes. No fun-loving smiles, either, because he can't see a single thing to laugh about at the moment.

Hurley heads off to tell Sayid and Kate that the Chinese people have water, hating himself every step of the way.

* * * * * * * *

Night falls, and the survivors settle down in front of their fires. Locke has returned with neither Jack nor an explanation. 

Hurley goes to check on Claire in the medical tent, where Charlie paces back and forth outside, his hoodie pulled down over his pale face. He ignores Hurley as he enters.

Inside, Claire lies with Kate at her side. “I'm good,” Claire says through cracked lips. "Jack says if it doesn't hurt, it's false labor." 

Since she gives him a wan smile, Hurley squats down next to her. She thrashes on the rickety cot, complaining that her back hurts. Hurley wants bring her back to their shelter, but before he can ask, Kate says, “I think it'd be better if she stayed here.”

"Gotcha," Hurley says. Kate holds Claire's hand, and Hurley wishes he could do that.

When Claire's eyes finally close, Hurley leaves. In front of the medical tent, Charlie sleeps rolled up on the sand like a watch dog.

* * * * * * * *

Later, Hurley beds down alone for the first time since the crash. The Milky Way fills the sky, but all he can see are the black spaces between galaxies, big as the gap in his shelter where Claire is not.

Old obsessions won't stay buried, but worm their way to the surface. Back in the hospital, before the orderlies had dragged him away, Leonard had screamed that Hurley should get as far away from the Numbers as he could. 

Hurley thought he'd done that. They couldn't follow him all the way to this deserted Pacific island, could they? Apparently they have. Only forty-seven people survived out of six times that number. Another one of them has died just this morning. If they don't find water soon, more will go.

Jinxed, that's what he is. Cursed. He tried to take care of Claire as Jack told him, but now look. Worse, Jack's been gone all day and into the night, too.

Forty-five. If Jack doesn't come back, that's what they'll be down to. Then, if anything happens to Claire ( _No, don't even think it_ , but he can't help it, and he thinks it anyway), there will be only forty-four. Then probably Walt because he's little, even though Michael gives his son most of his own water. Forty-three.

There's an older lady, gray-haired, whose name Hurley can't remember. She'll probably be next. That will leave forty-two. He recognizes that number as one of the cursed ones, and shies away from it like poison. 

Desperate to distract himself, Hurley looks over at Vincent, cuddled up to Michael and Walt. The plump Labrador looks just fine, not even panting.

Forget dowsing wands. So what if Jack thought that dogs couldn't find water. First thing tomorrow, Hurley resolves to leash up that dog and take him out into the jungle. He'll let Vincent get good and thirsty, then give him the lead. Sooner or later Vincent will find something. He's got to.

* * * * * * * *

Angry yells from the medical tent shove Hurley into waking. He gets there just in time to see Charlie pounding Boone into the sand. The stolen locker of Oceanic Air water bottles lies nearby. 

For Hurley, everything converges to the single point of Claire's terrified face. A spilled water bottle lies on the sand near Claire's cot, and it's obvious what's happened. 

Boone. Right in line behind Charlie, trying to get to Claire. Hurley sure didn't see that one coming. 

Sayid lunges at the two men, trying to pull them apart. Charlie's wild, though, and lands a few good swings on Sayid and Boone both.

When a shout rings out from the darkness, even Charlie stops fighting. It's Jack, looking better than he has in days. Kate squeezes Hurley's hand in a sudden gesture of relief. She walks towards Jack as if in a dream, hanging on to his every word. 

Hurley wishes someone would look at him like that.

Jack goes on how he's found water, how they all have to pull together. “If we don't learn to live together, we're going to die alone.” His face glows golden in the torch-light, full of purpose. It's as if Jack is a different person.

When Jack checks on Claire, he smiles and tells her that all her problems are due to dehydration. She's not to worry, though, because that won't be an issue anymore. He's brought water.

Jack's pointed look sends Hurley scooting to the locker, and people start to queue up.

At the front of the line, Kate says, “Jack wants Claire to have this much.” Without asking Hurley, she takes two full bottles. “But not all at once. She has to sip it for the rest of the night. And he wants to make sure her kidneys are okay.” 

If anything is wrong with Claire's kidneys, Hurley's pretty sure there's not a damn thing Jack can do about it.

Kate doesn't miss Hurley's stricken expression. “Don't worry, we'll watch her.” 

Hurley pours out water for the survivors until his arms ache. People file past him like it's the communion line at Our Lady of Lourdes, his old parish. Everyone gets a scant cupful. 

Then the water's gone, all of it, and it's time for Hurley to return to his lonely bed. Even so, he can't help the small gleeful jump his heart gives when Kate tells Charlie to go back to his sleeping spot, that she and Jack have things under control.

( _continued_ )


	7. Sing Hallelujah

Hurley's been up most of the night, just like old times when he would count the cracks in his hospital room ceiling. Now there are only charcoal-gray clouds which blot out the glorious explosions of starlight.

It's not like the nights of insomnia which landed him in the hospital, however. Even though he's been scared since the crash, he nestles in a weird hollow of calm. He hasn't had any Valium since the flight out of Sydney. 

It makes no sense, this well-being. Maybe it's because Jack has found water, or that he won't have to drag Vincent out into the jungle.

Kate and Jack wouldn't mind if he checked on Claire in the medical tent, would they? 

By the time Hurley works up his courage, the dark-gray clouds have turned white. Lowered beach-towels form a screen around the tent, and Hurley's nerve almost fails him when he thinks that she might be up and gone. 

He practices steady breathing to slow the anxious pounding of his heart. Even if she's there, she might be asleep, and he'll be the jerk who wakes her up.

Paralyzed. That's been the story of his life. Whenever he dares take a step forward, his world collapses. This plane crash has been the biggest blow-up he's ever known, worse than when the deck broke, even. He laughs, dry and without humor.

From inside the tent she calls, “Hurley? Is that you?”

He doesn't dare peek behind the orange beach towel. “Yeah. Sorry I bothered you.”

“You didn't.”

When he doesn't say anything, doesn't move, she pulls the towel aside. 

He almost can't believe it's her. Her color's back, and there's even a little plumpness in her cheeks. She takes a long swig from a water bottle, then offers him some.

She pushes the bottle towards him when he hesitates. “OK, maybe just a sip.” 

The water is brackish, almost salty, and he grimaces. 

“Jack tossed in a capful of sea water. For electrolytes.”

Hurley stares, confused. “Electrolytes? My aunt had that. The beautician lasered her face to get rid of her mustache.”

Claire laughs. “Oh, no, that's electrolysis.”

“Sorry.” Again he kicks himself inside. Such an idiot. “I should of known that. 'Cause you sure don't have a mustache.”

Half-hidden by the flapping beach towel, she waits.

Finally he says, “You look great.”

“I was just headed out for a stretch. That cot made my back stiff.”

An idea strikes him, overwhelmingly simple. This is the moment, his moment, right here for the taking. She'll probably say no, and who can blame her? After all, look at him. 

But the coolness of the morning, the absence of Charlie, that the survivors are still mostly asleep: all this spurs Hurley to take a leap of faith. “Hey, Claire, I was thinking. You want to, um, take a walk? Just a short one.” He doesn't add, “before breakfast,” because there probably won't be any.

A few heartbeats pass, yet to Hurley it feels like an hour. Her drawn-out, “I don't know, Hurley,” makes his insides collapse. Then she adds, “After all, I might be too fast for you.”

With the slow grinding of huge gears, he finally gets the joke. He's giddy with relief as he stashes water bottles in his cargoes. “No problemo. It's not like we got anyplace to be.” In a sudden rush of feeling, he blurts out, “It's awesome, that you're better.”

She nods, serious, but her eyes are smiling.

* * * * * * * *

Claire has never been up the beach west of the crash site. The baby's still riding pretty low in her hips, which slows her down, but Hurley matches her pace without complaining.

As the rising sun burns away the clouds, their shadows stretch out before them like magical figures. Maybe it's a trick of the light, but to Claire, Hurley's shadow towers over her like some ancient giant. His long, wind-blown hair sticks out on all sides.

She's exulting inside, trying to push down her happiness, telling herself that he's just being polite by checking up on her. For Claire has had a long night-time vigil of her own, missing Hurley's warmth, his cats'-purr snoring, his sheltering size. The creaky aluminum cot didn't support her back like sand does. Or his body next to hers, for that matter. 

When she gives a little sigh, he glances over. “You sure I didn't wake you up?”

“I was already awake. There were noises.”

At once, he scans the jungle's edge for anything menacing.

“Nothing like that, Hurley.” That strange _thing_ which tore up the trees seems very far away. Claire can almost believe it was a shared dream left over from the shock of the crash. “Just a couple of people on a midnight ramble.”

“Midnight ramble, right.”

“They didn't stay long, because the sand fleas got them. You ever get bit?”

“Nah.”

“Me either. They bite some people a lot, though.” She's thinking of Shannon with her sweet-smelling perfumes, her cosmetics, her lotion. 

Hurley and Claire stick to where the firm, wet sand makes easy walking. The land curves inward like a crescent moon, changing the sand to rocks. Slimy dark-green seaweed collects in the tide pools. 

Out of the blue Claire pulls on Hurley's arm, bringing him to a dead stop. Near the rocky shore, seagulls land on short, scrubby bushes, then take off in a flutter of white wings. 

“Hurley, this is fantastic.” She heads over to the green copse and kneels down. 

Her mum always warned against watching too much telly, saying she should read instead. Typical for a librarian, but that didn't stop Mum from occasionally switching on _Outback Survival_ or _Dangerous Creatures Down Under_. Claire used to watch too, fascinated, paying special attention to the birds.

Hurley looms over her as she hunts about, reaching under the bushes' leafy skirts. 

“You lose a contact lens?” he says, worry in his voice.

“Aha! Success!” From a gull's nest Claire pulls two small, speckled eggs, their green flecks bright against dull brown. Overhead the gulls circle and scream, not daring to approach.

With a grunt, Hurley gets down on hands and knees too. “Yay, Easter egg hunt.”

They go slowly from nest to nest. When they're done, Claire points with pride to their clutch of eight eggs. Even if they're smaller than hen's eggs, they're still something. Still food.

“We could bring them back to camp, cook them there,” Hurley says.

Heading back to camp is the last thing Claire wants. “You ever eat a raw egg?” 

“My mom went on a health-food kick once and put them in smoothies. Cold, slimy, really gross.”

The egg radiates heat. As it cracks, it fills Claire's hand with warm goo. Yellow as mid-day sun, the yolk rests in her palm, while clear egg-white drips to the sand below. She slides the whole mess into her mouth. 

As she licks her fingers she says, “Here, let me open one for you. I won't bollocks it up this time.” She cracks off only the tip this time, leaving egg inside its small brown bowl. Inside, two golden yolks rest jammed up against each other. 

Hurley peers in. “Wow, that's weird.”

“A double yolk. That's good luck.”

He gives her the same strange look as when she read his palm. Then he slurps down the double-yolked egg and three more, one after another.

Even though it's time to head back to camp, they still linger at the shoreline. Claire gives in to the crazy happiness that rolls around inside, in time with the baby. It makes no sense, given how sick she was yesterday, as dire as everything still is today. 

Now that Hurley and Claire are gone, the gulls wheel back to their nesting spot. “They'll lay more eggs,” she says. 

“Just like chickens?”

“Right. We can come back here in a few days.” 

Heart thumping, holding her breath, she does something she's wanted to for awhile now, in tune with all the other couples who stroll up and down the beach. Before she can talk herself out of it, she slips her hand into Hurley's. She doesn't have to see his face, because his sudden in-draw of breath says it all.

* * * * * * * *

All the way back to the wreckage, Hurley cradles Claire's hand in his. He's got to be dreaming. This can't be real. It's too perfect. He doesn't deserve it.

Her graceful fingers lace through his. Walking while holding hands is more complicated than it looks, and he lacks experience. At first his steps are slightly out of sync with hers, so he slows down. He doesn't want to yank her, or swing his arms too much. But by the time they get back to the crash site, he's gotten into the rhythm.

Jack and Kate have trekked to the new caves and brought fresh water. As Kate passes out Oceanic bottles, Jack crackles with energy as he talks to clumps of listening people. Most of them nod at Jack's words, faces neutral.

When Jack sees Hurley and Claire, he beckons them over. Hurley forgets that he and Claire are still joined, and pulls Claire along with him towards Jack.

Jack scrutinizes Claire with a clinical eye. “I see you're up and around. That's a good sign.”

She drops Hurley's hand, smoothing her hair nervously. “That dash of sea water must have done the trick.”

“Well, just keep hydrated. Kate's got water.” It's clear that Jack expects her to go get some, right now. “You got a minute, Hurley?”

Jack waxes on to Hurley about how beautiful the caves are, how cool, and there's even a waterfall in their midst. Half-listening, Hurley snatches occasional glimpses of Claire, who's joined a circle of women with Kate at the center. Shannon stands off, distant, shaking her head.

“...So, what do you think?” Jack says, frowning a bit at Hurley's divided attention.

The women have clumped into a mass with a mind of its own, one that's not going to decide anything soon. To buy time, Hurley says, “You run this by Sayid yet?”

Jack's face falls. “He's less than enthusiastic. He wants to keep the signal fire going.”

“Yeah, well, he's got a point.” Over by Claire, Kathy's talking now, her college-teacher voice rising above the pounding surf. 

Jack senses that he's losing Hurley, so he takes a different approach. “Claire would be better off at the caves, out of the sun. She was lucky she didn't get heat stroke yesterday.”

“I'll talk to her. But if she wants to hang around here... You did tell me to stay with her, Jack.”

“Fair enough.”

Hurley's not done yet. “What about Kate? The two of you gonna buy a condo cave, get you a Cuisinart?”

“What?” 

“You know, that Weird Al song, 'Buy Me a Condo?'"

Jack just looks blank.

"Never mind, dude. Nothing wrong with Jackson Browne."

Finally, the women's circle breaks up. Claire is chatting with Kate, but stops when Hurley approaches. 

“I guess you two have to talk,” Kate says.

“What about you?” Hurley nods in Jack's direction.

Kate's face slams shut like a car door. “Haven't made up my mind.”

After she leaves, Hurley asks Claire, “You doing OK? That was some long pow-wow there.”

“I guess you're going. You being close with Jack and all.”

Hurley's still thinking about Kate's “you two.” Finally he says, “There's water up there.”

“There's water here. Look at the sky.”

Thick clouds are forming over the beach where they stand, and the smell of rain is in the air.

* * * * * * * * 

The crashing storm fills their water reservoirs and soaks everyone to the skin. Jack won't leave until the rain stops, so it's almost sundown when the small band of castaways departs for the caves.

People queue up behind Jack like refugees. Hurley almost feels sorry for him, because so few people are going. First comes Jin, who after a serious fight with Michael spent most of the day chained to a piece of fuselage. Jin walks behind Jack with a stone-hard face, while Sun creeps along behind him. While Jin may not speak English, he doesn't need words to telegraph that the beach isn't big enough for both him and Michael.

A middle-aged couple follows Sun, but Hurley doesn't know their names. Another pair brings up the rear, a mother and her adult son. That's it. These are the only people Jack's been able to persuade.

Everyone else has politely stated their reasons for staying. The last to decline was Rose, who smiled and said that if she wasn't at the beach, how would her missing husband Bernard know where to find her? 

Sure, Jack thinks she's delusional, but he doesn't fight her on it. The docs at Santa Rosa did that sometimes. If meds and therapy didn't shake a patient's delusions, and if they weren't hurting anybody, the docs would let it ride. Other than her obsession, Rose seems happy.

After Jack has left, Claire and Hurley sit beside Sayid's roaring fire, along with Kate, Shannon, and Boone. Everyone takes turns skewering crab-meat on long, sharp sticks. 

Claire says, "I feel bad for Jack." 

Kate half-laughs, but it sounds false, and Hurley sees that she's really hurting. No one quite understands why Kate is still here, rather than at Jack's side up at the caves.

Sayid leans over to Kate, full of warm enthusiasm. “We'll set out at first light. We can find the source of that radio signal, I know it.”

Her brave little smile doesn't reach her tear-flecked eyes.

Sayid has arranged large, flat pieces of metal to reflect the firelight upwards, increasing the chances that a plane will spot it. It lights their faces from beneath, giving everyone an uncanny glow.

Meanwhile, Shannon is rubbing sweet-smelling lotion all over her long legs, stealing quick glances at Sayid whenever he speaks.

“That stuff only makes them bite harder,” her brother says.

Shannon looks disgusted as she tosses the tube over to him. “You could use some. You smell like a goat.”

Hurley catches the amusement in Sayid's eyes. Shannon gets up to leave and Boone trails behind, the two of them still bickering.

“It reminds me of myself and my brother,” Sayid says, eyes edged with laughter.

“Yeah, me too,” says Hurley. “Only mine was bigger and meaner.”

“He must have a sizable presence, to overshadow you,” Sayid replies in a dry tone.

“Nah, around ninth grade I outgrew him. Then he didn't get up in my grill anymore.”

Sayid chuckles, but not in a cruel way. “I can imagine.”

Night plunges the beach into darkness, so Hurley and Claire take their leave. When they reach the half-way point between the infirmary tent and their shelter, they pause, as if at a fork in the road. 

Even the memory of her warm hand in his doesn't give Hurley enough confidence to pose the question. It turns out that he doesn't need to. She crawls under the tarp of their shelter and settles herself down as though she'd never left it. “Good, my stuff's still here.”

“I wasn't gonna let anybody mess with it. You, um, got enough to drink?”

“Any more, and I'll float away.”

It's all he wants to hear. He knows that you can drown plants by watering them too much. Even so, he wants to pour buckets over her, soak her in a rainstorm, plunge her into a bubbling pool and watch her spring to the surface, hair streaming wet down her back, moisture beading on her face. He says a silent prayer of thanks for the rain; for Jack and Kate bringing back water earlier that day; for the caves, even though he's glad he's not there.

He doesn't need to add Claire to the list. His heart is singing it. He lets it out with every breath.

Tomorrow he'll check out the caves, take a look around. Jack said it wasn't far. 

Claire's already curled up, on the inside this time. He rolls over to face the moonlit surf, whose endless waves pound even the hardest boulders into sand. The tide's come in, and the gleaming water looks very close.

As if enough riches haven't been bestowed on him, one more golden coin drops into his lap. From behind, Claire loops her arm around him, barely reaching across his wide back. Afraid to move at first, he slowly relaxes into the embrace. 

Eventually Hurley closes his eyes. Maybe he's managed to get away from the Numbers, after all.

( _continued_ )


	8. The Butterfly Effect

By the time Claire pushes her way out of a deep, restful sleep, Hurley's already up and gone. For an instant she panics, thinking that he's ditched her, that yesterday's walk on the beach was just one sweet dream, pack up the bags, get in the limousine, as the song goes. Desire merges with shame as she remembers holding onto him throughout the night.

 _Never make the first move_ , Mum always said. _If you do, men will take advantage._ Well, Thomas made the first move, didn't he? 

Hurley hasn't gone far, though, just down to the infirmary tent, where Jack is packing up the last of the medical supplies. He's trying to talk Kate into something, but it doesn't look like she's buying it. 

Hurley swings around to give her a smile, and Claire's nervousness fades a little.

As Jack squeezes a suitcase shut, he tries one more time. “Sure you won't come with us to the caves this morning, Kate?"

Kate wears the same stone face of yesterday. "Sorry. I'm helping Sayid find the radio signal."

Hurley tells Claire, “I'm gonna tote some bags up to the caves with Jack, check things out.” At her downcast expression he adds, “You could come too. It's a short walk, fifteen minutes tops—”

“Lots to do around here, Hurley. I'll go get you some empties.” The very thought of the caves grates her with anxiety, like an irritating background noise that won't go away. 

No one cares whose water bottle is whose anymore. If someone has a disease, they'll all share it, although nobody seems to have gotten sick so far. She fills a large duffel bag for Hurley. 

As soon as Hurley and Jack leave, Sawyer plunks his gear down in the ex-infirmary tent, claiming it for his own.

* * * * * * * *

If Claire wanted to, she could spend all morning sorting through scraps of airplane: chunks of plastic, snake-like electrical cables, boxes of all sizes. Sayid reminds the sorters that everything has potential value. Nothing goes into the trash pit unless one other sorter has looked it over and deemed it useless. Nothing is ever to be tossed into the ocean. Sayid's crisp military bearing gets the point across loud and clear. 

Kate, Sayid, and Boone leave with Sayid, all of them laden down with cobbled-together electronic equipment. Something using triangles to find the signal, but Claire has no idea how. 

As Claire sifts through the wreckage, she wishes Kate were with her. Hurley hasn't come back from the caves yet, either. There's no reason to worry, but some danger seems to lurk in the blue waves which lap the shore, in the green vegetation which coats the mountainsides. 

A fair number of Oceanic 815's passengers were returning from outdoor expeditions in Australia. Their bags contain great finds: backpacks, collapsible cups, striker flints, Swiss-Army knives, even cooking equipment. 

By mid-morning Claire's gathered a good haul of camping items. She's about to take them to the makeshift "kitchen" when Charlie careens into view, sweat flying from his face. He dashes from group to group, shouting for help in a ragged voice.

There's been an accident, a cave-in. Jack is trapped. 

Panic floods the camp. A group springs into action, all of one mind. Scott, Steve, Boone, Michael and his son, and a few others disappear into the deep green woods, leaving only echoes. 

Charlie hasn't mentioned Hurley. That could be good or bad, and Claire gets a crazy urge to follow the men. Even though she's never been to the caves, that tromping horde will leave a wide path through the bush, easy to follow. 

Reason stops her. Heart pounding, she picks up her scavenged gear.

The kitchen isn't much, really, just something Rose and Kathy pulled together: a long slab of burnished metal for food prep, a tub of ocean water for washing it down, some utensil containers, all sheltering under a tarp. 

Claire fights encroaching panic. If something has happened to Jack, she can't imagine what she's going to do when her time comes. And Hurley, well, she won't even let herself think about that. 

Someone sneaks up on her from behind. “Want a hand getting up?” 

Behind the sun, Claire can see only a dark silhouette surrounded by a blinding halo. “No, I'm fine. I've got it.”

He's one of the survivors who keeps to himself. Claire has never seen where he sleeps, and that's odd, because people's campsites have become as distinctive as faces. This man spends most of his day in the jungle, and like Kate, he forages alone.

Claire squints through the sunlight. “Shouldn't you be helping with the cave-in?”

“Cave-in?”

“What, you hadn't heard?”

“I was out collecting papaya. Just got back.”

Green-streaked orange fruits tumble out of his twisted-vine basket, and he wears a smile better suited to a hyena than a man.

“Can I get this for you?” He grabs her camping things and the bundle spills open, littering the sand with silver and plastic objects. 

Claire's fear turns to impatience. She starts to bend down, then stops. Let him pick up his own mess. As he does, she very much wishes that Rose or anyone were around. The camp feels deserted with most of the men gone, and the rest of the survivors off fishing or foraging.

Rose has organized plastic tubs with airline cutlery, cups, metal that's been bent into hooks or tongs. Claire puts away what she's found, ignoring the man. After adding his fruit to the communal pile, he places the empty basket in front of her as if showing it off.

“I made it. It's not difficult.” His gaze roams her face, breasts, then lingers on her belly.

Claire stares back at him, hard. “You know, I don't think we've been introduced.” 

He extends his hand. “Ethan.” If his grin gets any more crooked, it's going to fall right off his face.

“Claire.” She doesn't accept the hand-shake.

As if suddenly thrown off balance, he pulls his hand back. “The basket's made of lianas. I could show you where I gathered them. It's about a quarter mile in the jungle. Or, should I say half a klick?” 

His attempt to be endearing falls flat on the sand and dies there, but Ethan doesn't seem to notice.

Claire's still struggling for a graceful exit when light footsteps scuff up behind her. It's Meredith and Jane, here to pick up some fruit. They're a contrast, Meredith's soft blondness with Jane's gruff iron-grey. 

Jane stares at the wicker creation on the kitchen table. “Nice basket. You make that?”

“Um, yes.” Ethan still looks off-balance, and he's plainly not happy to see these two.

“You could sell a cartload on market day in Surrey. They're all the rage, I hear.” As Jane speaks, she saws open a papaya. The yellow juice makes a slow drip-drip off the table's edge. 

When Meredith snickers a little, Ethan's eyes narrow. 

“Where'd you learn to make those?” Claire says, taking courage now that the two women have shown up.

“In the Peace Corps.” 

Jane puts on a posh accent that's not really hers. “Peace Corps, right. My uncle was in the Peace Corps back in the early '90s. Nepal, building wells. He got dysentery, dropped two stone he couldn't afford to lose, and spent a month in hospital. So where were you stationed? And sorry, didn't catch your name.”

“Ethan.” The confidence leaches from his eyes like the dripping juice. “I was in Africa.”

Jane cuts the fruit into chunks, handing a piece first to Claire, then Meredith, without offering any to Ethan. “Big continent, Africa is.”

Meredith says, “So, Ethan, did you go trekking about in the bush, or were you mostly in cities?”

“Both, actually.”

Jane calls out, “Hello, Shannon! Come over here, have some papaya.”

Now four women stand across the metal table from Ethan. As Shannon accepts a small piece of fruit, she slices Ethan with her eyes, the kind of cuts that don't even hurt until a finger or toe drops off.

Jane wipes the knife and loops it onto her belt. “Now that Mr. Locke's relocated to other premises, I don't think he'll mind if I borrow it.” She surveys the women, pointedly ignoring Ethan. “Found some mussels down by the shoals, ladies. Want to join me?”

They move away in a flock, with Claire positioned in the middle. Even so, she feels Ethan's hot stare on her back, working its way down to her legs.

When Ethan's out of earshot, Jane turns to the group. “Stay the hell away from him.”

Shannon covers a little strangled cough with her hand. “What a creep. He's the kind that wants school kids to find his lost puppy.” 

Meredith nods. “Or help load a couch into the back of the lorry. Remember that movie?”

Shannon does, but Claire hasn't seen it. Nonetheless, she shudders.

The sun descends into late afternoon, yet none of the men who've gone to the caves have returned. Neither have Sayid, Kate, or Boone. Claire sits by Shannon, whose breathing comes out ragged and wheezy. Neither of them have to speak, because their fear in their eyes says it all.

* * * * * * * *

At the caves, Hurley fills water bottles from a gurgling waterfall. Cuts line his forearms, blisters dot his palms, and everything stings. That's what he gets for moving rocks all day without gloves. It was worth it, though, because Jack's free now. Other than a sprained shoulder he's none the worse for wear. 

When Kate and Boone heard of the cave-in, they came at once, and hauled rocks with the rest of them. Sayid is still out in the jungle somewhere, still messing with his radio stuff. Something went wrong with the triangularization or whatever it's called, something big, but Kate won't say what. 

Hurley's not looking forward to dragging himself plus forty extra pounds of water back to the beach. It would be so easy to just grab an extra blanket, find a niche, and sleep for about twelve hours. He's that tired. 

Even Kate is camping out in the caves tonight, setting up a bedroll in one of the many clefts which dot the walls.

Boone squats by Hurley and fills a few bottles of his own. “Shannon's probably panicked by now.”

“Lotta people went back to the beach already. They probably told her you're okay.”

“Yeah, I hope so.”

Boone may be finished, but Hurley still has twenty more bottles to fill. He hands an empty to Boone, who just stares at it, then absently dips it into the water. If Hurley keeps passing bottles to him, Boone will fill them. Otherwise he gazes into the bubbling pool, his thoughts elsewhere.

“It's just that she depends on me,” Boone eventually says, defensive.

The cuts on Hurley's hands burn like fire. A crazy thought pushes up, that this pain balances out the earlier joy of Claire's hand in his. Hurley doesn't struggle with the notion, though. Instead he breathes in and out slowly, repeating to himself what Dr. Curtis taught him. They're just thoughts. Breathe them out, let them fall to the ground, or disappear into the air.

Just thoughts.

When Boone speaks, Hurley forces himself back to the present. Something about how it's going to be dark soon, and maybe the two of them should grab some torches and head on back to camp together.

In the back of the cave, Charlie shivers beneath a couple of blankets, his hoodie pulled halfway down over his face. According to Jack, he has flu. Good thing it didn't stop Charlie from helping Jack find a way out of the cave-in. Hurley almost says good-bye, but Charlie looks pretty sick, so Hurley doesn't. 

As Boone and Hurley leave, Jack gives them a long, sad look without saying anything.

* * * * * * * * 

Hurley and Boone are on their way to the beach, their path lit by a pale half-moon. Their torches are already starting to burn out.

When Hurley staggers from fatigue, Boone remarks, “You look wiped, man.”

“Hope I'm not catching Charlie's flu.” 

Boone snorts, an explosive snicker. “Flu, my ass.”

“What?” Hurley's too tired to register what Boone's saying, much less argue.

“You're from LA, right? It's not like you fell off the truck yesterday.”

What the hell trucks have to do with anything, Hurley can't fathom. Each step feels weighted with lead, and the heavy backpack cuts into his shoulders. Luckily the path must have been a boar run or something, because it's a straight shot through the trees. 

Maybe he should have stayed at the caves like Kate, curled up, slept. Sleep. He's never wanted to sleep so much in his life, if you didn't count being medded to the gills in the hospital.

Boone won't quit, though. “I had a couple of friends who went through rehab. It's hard enough to kick the H in a clinic, even with methadone. Out here, man, I can't imagine.”

The H? Heroin? Oh, brother. “Dude, I get that Charlie was macking on your sister, and you're still pissed. That's no reason to—”

“Stop being such a goddamned Pollyanna, Hurley. People don't tweak like that when they have the flu. I tell you, he's detoxing.”

“Jack said—”

“Of course he said. What's he supposed to say, 'Oh, Charlie's fine, just doing a little cold turkey?'”

Hurley plods on, more disgruntled that Jack might have lied than about Charlie trying to claw the monkey off his back. Hurley's brother Diego has smoked a little pot now and then, but Hurley's own drug experiences are purely legal, the kind they give you when you're 5150'd on a seventy-two hour suicide watch.

He can see why Jack lied, though. Charlie's got enough problems as it is, running around annoying people, babbling about his band. Letting the whole beach know Charlie's a junkie isn't going to help anything, least of all Charlie.

With a heavy sigh, Hurley shifts his load, trudging along with Boone in silence.

* * * * * * * *

Through the inky screen of trees, Hurley glimpses bonfires scattered like little planets around the great central sun of the signal fire. Some trick of the light makes the crooked moon look yellower and bigger than it should be. 

A couple of men greet them with sticks and hard expressions, but when they see it's just Hurley and Boone, they relax. Sawyer's nowhere to be seen. Claire, Shannon, Jerome, and Scott sit around a camp-fire, and there Hurley drops his water-laden baggage with a thud.

Claire pulls Hurley down next to her. “Oh my God, I'm so glad you're back.”

Shannon peers into the darkness, looking for someone. “Where's Sayid?” 

Hurley answers for the silent Boone. “Dunno. He wasn't at the caves with us.”

“So he didn't join up with you after finishing the triangulation?” Jerome asks.

“Hey, look, the dude's got ninja skills. He's probably out camping somewhere.”

When Shannon takes a few raspy breaths, Boone says, “I don't like how that sounds.”

“I'm fine,” she snaps. “Stop fussing over me.”

“Just hang on, Shan.” Boone dashes off to his and Shannon's shelter, then combs through luggage, cursing when he doesn't find what he's looking for.

“You all right?” Hurley says to Claire. 

“I'm good.” The contents of her bag are spread out by the fire. From the look of it, she's been tearing a flannel shirt into diapers. 

Scott points to the duffel bag. “You want us to pass that water around?”

“That'd be awesome,” Hurley says. “I'm beat.”

From the other side of camp, Boone is still tossing suitcase contents onto the sand. “Where the hell are those inhalers?”

Claire says to Shannon, “Inhalers?” 

Shannon brushes the question away. “It's nothing. He always over-reacts.”

Empty-handed, Boone slides into place at Shannon's side, clearly frustrated.

Claire says, “Boone, you're not going to find anything by throwing stuff around in the dark like that.”

“It can't be that important, dude,” Hurley adds. “Wait till light.”

Ignoring Hurley, Boone turns to Shannon. “Don't you need your rest? Sitting on the ground like this is just going to make it worse.”

Shannon only sways a little as she leaps to her feet. “Oh, for God's sake, I've had enough of you.” As she stalks off, Boone scrambles after. 

Now it's just Hurley, Claire, and the sputtering fire. He says, “Jack's okay.” 

“I know. Scott and Jerome got back right before sunset and told us the news. Look here, what's this?” 

Claire goes over Hurley's cuts and blisters with the same delicate touch she used to read his palm, dabbing a few drops of fish oil onto the sore spots. Sweaty rock dust coats his shirt and cargoes, mats his hair. If it bothers her, she doesn't show it. 

“So, I didn't see Kate with you.”

“Kate's hanging around with Jack at the caves tonight.”

“Good. I think she wanted to be there, but just didn't feel she could come out and say it.”

Hurley knows how that goes. 

Claire hands him a half coconut full of raw fish, fatty and succulent. After it's gone, he snaps the coconut shell into pieces and peels off the meat. The shell fragments flame up into blue spikes in the fire.

Up at the caves, they're probably digging into that boar which John Locke spent most of the afternoon roasting. Hurley's tiny stab of regret vanishes when Claire asks, “So, was Ethan up at the caves with you?”

“Ethan?” Hurley tries to remember the dozen or so who filed in and out of the caves all through this long, frightening day. He's good with names and faces both, so with confidence he says, “No, no Ethan.”

“Oh.” 

The fragility in her voice makes his every nerve twitch. “There's an Ethan here?”

“Yeah. He's kind of... weird.”

“Got it. Let's check it out tomorrow, huh?” Oh, Hurley's got it, all right. It's not jealousy which tells him that it's time to keep better track of who's here at the beach, who's at the caves, who everybody is. What their stories are. Something has frightened Claire, and he's going to get to the bottom of it.

Just his luck, he must have said the right thing. With a little sigh, Claire pillows her head on his filthy shoulder.

Supper, rest, the sweet weight of Claire's head: all cover Hurley with a deep-settled peace, as a cool wind blows in from the ocean. Under their tarp, Boone and Shannon have quieted down. Jerome drops Hurley's empty duffel bag by the fire, gives Hurley a wide grin, then slips away. 

Claire raises her head to yawn. “Time to tuck in, I guess.”

At their shelter, she rolls into her blanket, but he doesn't follow. Instead, he plunges into the surf, clothes and all, while fragmented moonlight dances on the waves. Salt water isn't the best thing for cleaning off, but it'll have to do. His hands should hurt like the devil, but the fish oil does its work, and they don't.

The waves' embrace leaves him chilly and dripping, yet cleaner than ever, almost new-born. He shakes off most of the water, just like he's seen Vincent do a dozen times. 

Hurley throws a beach towel down onto the sand near Claire, trying not to drip onto her. Sleep evades him, though. Since leaving the caves, a burden greater than water bottles or strained muscles has been weighing on him. Something about truth, how much of it you tell, and when. 

“Claire?” 

Her reply is thick with drowsiness. “Hmm?”

“There's something I got to... Okay, my name's really not Hurley.” 

“Didn't think it was.”

“That's just what people call me. It's Hugo. Hugo Reyes.”

Instead of answering, she laces her fingers in his. A crazy thought ambushes him, that he must have died in the crash after all. While he wouldn't let himself into heaven, somebody else obviously had a different idea. 

_Just thoughts_ , he tells himself.

The sand, the soaked towel beneath him, Claire's warm hand in his, the ocean wind that's already dried his back: it all feels too real. All of it. Of course he's not dead. And nobody could be as lucky as him right now.

After a few heartbeats, Claire says in the same sleepy voice, “Reyes, that's nice. Is it French?” 

“Spanish.”

“Umm.” She drifts off into dream, still tethered to earth by his hand, just as hers binds him fast. 

As far as Hugo's concerned, the night can go ahead and last forever, so long as he doesn't have to let go.

( _continued_ )


	9. You Can Relax Now

It rains right before dawn, and Claire wakes to the slap of water hitting the tarp. The rain bathes everything in a clean, green fragrance, but the spell is broken when Shannon starts to wheeze. 

Hurley's sleeping on his stomach, snoring. Claire wants nothing more than to cuddle his soft side, but she can't ignore the gasping noises coming from Shannon and Boone's shelter. 

Sleep-fogged, Hurley raises himself on one arm. “Dude, what's that sound?”

“It's Shannon. Something's wrong.”

Claire leaves Hurley's warmth for Boone's shelter, where Boone is frantically dumping bags onto the sand. “Are you sure you didn't take them out, Shan?”

Shannon ignores him. She dashes her face with water from their water trap and says in between wheezes, “You know what I'd pay for a rainwater scrub in LA?”

Claire dabs her own face. “Boone's worried about you.”

Shannon brushes Claire aside. “I'll be fine.”

Dismissed, Claire stands at the shoreline and gazes out over a sun-kissed ocean whose waves invite her in. Down the beach, Kate carries a large bunch of green bananas while off-shore, Sawyer's taking a morning dip. He breaks through the water like a seal and strides towards Kate, bare-assed. She stops to chat with him, and doesn't look away.

Although Claire's no stranger to nudity, the scene leaves her empty and haunted. She hasn't seen a man naked since the day Thomas threw her out. He got out of their bed that morning, flopping limp in the breeze, saying what did she expect with that enormous stomach and swollen breasts?

She was four months pregnant at the time.

* * * * * * * *

Blazing tropical sun burns off every last delicate breath of rain. Beached on the sea-side, blinded by mid-morning glare, Claire gives up trying to read. She screens her eyes with her hand and watches Hurley instead as he stands in the surf, sweeping a net back and forth.

Sun has made dip-nets out of cordage salvaged from the plane, and she's given one to Hurley. She doesn't need English to tell him that he's to catch fish for Claire. It's what a man does. 

Charlie skips over to Claire with a bag of water bottles and hands her one. “Special delivery.” He's still buried inside that hoodie, tied tightly at the neck. He's less pale, though he still looks to be fighting off shivers.

“You sure you should be doing a water run, with your flu?” 

“Flu, shmue. I'm recovering remarkably fast. But I wouldn't have to make this run, if you'd see fit to relocate to the caves.” He invites himself to sit on her beach towel, and his eager, energetic smile confuses her at first.

 _Charlie doesn't know._ Then she asks herself, _Knows what? What is there to know, Claire?_

She can smell the dankness of the caves on him. “I like the beach.”

Slapping at the bare skin of his hands, Charlie says, “Don't these bloody things ever bite you?”

“They must find you appetizing. They ignore me.”

“I can't imagine why. I should think you'd be highly appetizing.”

The _bon mot_ lies squirming in the sand, ignored. 

Hurley bounces up from the shore, a broad smile on his face. “Hey, Charlie, man. You're looking great.”

“Much improved, thanks.”

“Fantastic.” Hurley extricates three octopuses from the net and hangs them on the clothesline next to a few of Claire's underthings.

Claire says, “Hey, you caught a couple.”

“Better than nothing. That spot's kinda fished out. Farther down the beach might be better.”

“Sounds like a grand idea,” Charlie says. “You should check that out, pronto. Pick up a few red snapper for me, while you're at it.”

Instead, Hurley eases his bulk on the sand next to Claire. “Charlie, I been thinking. Since you got your guitar back, why don't you bring it down to the beach, strum a few tunes so we can sing along?”

Coming from someone else, Thomas, say, it would sound like mockery. But Hurley seems entirely sincere.

Charlie, though, looks as if he's just stepped in something unpleasant. “Sing... along? Look, man, my band... I mean, we opened at the Cavern Club.”

Hurley has obviously never heard of the Cavern Club. “We could sing those camp songs, the ones everybody knows. You do that in England, right?”

“Umm...” Charlie says, obviously flummoxed. 

Before Charlie can answer, Boone's voice rings out across the beach. “Help, somebody, help, she can't breathe!”

Hurley hoists himself to his feet, scattering sand in every direction. “Come on, Charlie.”

Like an automaton, Charlie obediently rises and follows Hurley. Shannon clings to Boone's chest, gasping heavily.

“Oh, my God, we've got to get her to Jack!” Boone says.

Shannon's eyes almost bug out of her face in panic. “I... can't make it.. Can't... walk up there...”

Boone lifts his sister, but buckles almost at once, even though she's light and slender. “A fireman's carry, that's what we need.”

“Fireman's what?” says Hurley.

Boone forms his arms into a kind of chair. “One man on one side, one on the other. Charlie, grab her bag. The pink one.”

“Sure, on it.”

Hurley and Boone support Shannon in the scoop of their interlaced arms, while Charlie hovers around anxiously. Before they leave for the caves, Hurley gives Claire a long, parting look.

* * * * * * * *

The noon sun is bright, so Claire shelters under a feather-branched tree at the jungle's edge. Ethan's nowhere to be seen, but she doesn't take any chances, and stays within shouting distance of Brian and a few other guys. They bash shiny black stones with heavy grey rocks, breaking them into glassy shards. They're making knives.

She's tired of her blue diary, full of nothing but old grievances. Instead, she sketches the gulls as they hover over the waves.

Claire stops when Kate approaches, hair in disarray, her face red. 

“Hey, Kate, thought you were up at the caves with Jack."

She won't look Claire in the eye. "We were. Jack had to run an... errand down here." The air around Kate seethes with tension.

"Is Hurley with you?"

"He's still back at the caves, with Shannon and Boone." 

There's something so not-right here. "How is Shannon?”

“Jack got her fixed up this morning, and she's way better. Claire, I have to talk to you.”

“What's up?” 

“You were here all yesterday afternoon, weren't you?”

“Where else would I go?” Claire gives a little laugh, but Kate doesn't smile back. 

“So when you were here at the beach, Sawyer was too, right?”

“Sawyer's like a cat, Kate. When he finds a comfortable spot, he barely moves. He sat reading that book about the rabbits till sunset. Then he plunked himself in front of his fire and smoked. Everybody could smell it.”

“Claire, this is really important. So, you saw him all through the late afternoon and evening?”

“What on earth is this about?”

“Could you tell Jack and Sayid what you told me? Please?”

“Well, sure. But—” 

Kate won't let her finish. Pulling Claire to her feet, she drags her to Sayid's shelter, where Jack and Sayid are talking quietly, their foreheads almost touching. If their auras were visible, they'd flicker red with anger. 

Marching right up to the two men, Kate announces, “Sawyer didn't do it.”

Claire takes in the blood-stains on Sayid's t-shirt, his clotted head wound. “Sayid, what happened?”

He doesn't answer, but her warm tone softens his stony expression.

“Claire, tell them what you told me,” Kate says in a rush. “About seeing Sawyer.”

So Claire does. She finishes with, “Jack, half a dozen people were around, too.”

Jack's weary, and brown blood specks dot his blue jeans. “We've talked to people, Claire. Nobody seems to know anything.”

As Sayid spins a bone-handled knife, sunlight flashes on the blade.

“What'd Sawyer do?” Claire asks.

Some of Sayid's anger has boiled off, although his eyes still gleam with ferocity. “Just as I was about to triangulate the radio signal, I was struck from behind.”

Something about that knife repels Claire. It's irrational, but she can't help it. “Where did you get that?”

Sayid rotates the knife as he passes it from hand to hand. “I thought we were the ones asking the questions.”

“He got it from Locke,” Kate says. 

“Oh, right, Mr. Locke of the four hundred knives.”

Sayid's eyes soften at that. “The very same.”

Claire steps up for one more swing. “Sawyer couldn't have hit you while you were up on the mountain, Sayid. It would take hours to hike up there, then return.”

Jack uses the tone reserved for stubborn children. “Claire, no one else would have a reason to—”

“Why don't you believe her, Jack?” Kate interrupts, impatient and clearly irritated.

“Why are you defending him?” Jack snaps back. 

“This is immaterial,” Sayid says. “Claire has no reason to defend Sawyer, even if Kate might.”

Now both men are staring at Kate, hard and critical.

Tears start to gather in Kate's eyes. “I swear to God, if you think—” 

“Look, Sayid,” Claire breaks in. “You, too, Jack. I wasn't always just some preggo who sits around. I went on walkabouts, wilderness camps. I know how hard it is to move through the bush. There simply wasn't time.”

“You've made your point,” Sayid says. “But there is another matter. Shannon's medication.”

Claire looks directly at Sayid. “Kate said she was better."

Jack sighs. “We managed to get her stabilized, and when I left her, she was resting. Sun found this botanical that's helping, at least temporarily. But we need to find her inhalers, and no one but Sawyer—”

“You don't know that.” Kate practically bites on the words.

If only Hurley were here. He could cut through all this suspicion and anger. But there are no mobile phones on this Island, no way to ring him up. Claire's on her own. She blurts out, “I'll talk to Sawyer.”

“What makes you think he'll tell you anything?” Sayid says, barely disguising the scoff in his tone.

“Because I'm the only one here he hasn't fought with.”

* * * * * * * *

_Stupid. Rash. Idiot._ That's what Claire tells herself on the way to Sawyer's tent. She carries a coconut shell of octopus-and-breadfruit stew, her and Hurley's evening meal. It took over an hour to make, but Claire knows her mythology. If you want to get past Cerberus, you have to toss him a honey-cake first.

Claire's never had a honey-cake, but one sounds pretty good right now. 

Sawyer's taking the same mid-afternoon siesta everyone else does, as there's no point in running around in the hottest part of the day. Claire dreads waking him up, but it can't be helped, so she taps on the metal tent frame like it was a front door. “Excuse me? Sawyer?”

Sleep and heat have blurred his hard expression. When his eyes open, it takes them a few seconds to focus. “Well, if it ain't Mamacita. What can I do you for?”

His face crinkles into a smirk full of mischief. No wonder Kate stares at him when she thinks he isn't looking. And sometimes, like this morning, when she knows he is. Three of the four tarp walls are lowered, leaving the air inside stuffy and a bit gamey. 

“Can I come in?”

“Be my guest.” He scoots over, giving her a bit of first-class seat to perch upon. “What you got there?”

“Just a little something I whipped up. Had some extra, and I thought you'd like to try it.”

“You makin' Fat Albert his supper now? You got your work cut out for you, sweetheart. This a gift, or a trade?”

Everything depends on her answer. “A gift. There is something I want, but you don't have to give it to me.” As she hands him the coconut shell, her stomach rumbles. Maybe she can catch more octopus, or dig for clams. Or something. “Please, take it.”

“Why” forms behind Sawyer's eyes, but doesn't reach his lips. Instead, he breathes deeply of the fragrant stew. “Ain't had a home-cooked meal since we crashed on this damned rock. I thank you.”

“You're welcome.” She starts to get up, but he places a gentle hand on her arm. 

“You're gonna let me eat all by my lonesome?” He spoons the gloppy mixture into two metal cups, then hands one to her. 

He practically inhales his own portion while Claire makes mental notes. She used to fry fish at the restaurant, then cooked for Thomas. Everyone always acted like it was nothing, just slap fish in the fryer, grill rashers of bacon. Any idiot can do it, right? But on this Island, cooking is worth something in trade. Confidence flickers through her as she eats.

“You want the shell back?” Sawyer says.

“Keep it. There are lots more where that came from.” It's true. Coconut groves line the coastline, and where there are coconuts, crabs and sea-birds follow. The pressure to find food is easing a bit. But someone still has to cook.

“So.” Sawyer cleans out the shell with his fingers, licks them.

“So, now I won't bother you anymore.”

“You ain't bothering me at-all. I'm just wonderin' why you'd wanna share fish stew with the likes of me.”

Late-afternoon sun coats Sawyer with liquid gold, making his hair shine like a tawny mane. Claire swallows hard, nerves twitching. She's walked into the lion's den, and now she's about to stick her head into his jaws. “Look, you have a lot of stuff you don't even use.”

Claire already knows the speech by heart: it's his stash, he came by it fair and square, free trade and all that. Before he can get it out, she cuts him off. “I'm not giving you a hard time about it. But Shannon's sick. She needs her medicine, those things you breathe through.”

“Inhalers.”

“That's right. Please.”

His nostrils flare, sniffing for a trap. “Jack put you up to this?”

“He didn't want me to talk to you.”

“I bet him and Iraqi Pete sent you in here all sweet as pie, afore they charge in to kick the shit out of me.”

“Glad you liked the stew, Sawyer. That tells me Hurley's going to love it for sure.” As she struggles to get up, he gracefully takes her arm, the conditioned reflex of a man who rises whenever a lady enters or leaves the room.

It hits her with a little shock. Sawyer sees her as a lady.

He shuffles a bit, looking more like a boy and less the bane of the survivors' camp. “I ain't got her medicine.”

It comes out so softly and unexpected that Claire blurts out, “What?”

“I said, I don't—”

“No, I heard.” Committing herself to something irreversible, Claire says, “I believe you.”

It's Sawyer's turn to look astonished. Before he can answer, she pivots her ungainly belly around, letting its momentum carry her out of Sawyer's tent.

 _Now what?_ she thinks. Oh, sweet relief, there's Hurley huddled by the signal fire with Sayid, Jack and Kate. Claire can make out snatches of, “I say we just—” and “Jack, don't you dare,” along with Sayid's “Are you willing to trade Shannon's life for—” followed by Hurley's, “Chill, dude, when I left the caves she was fine—”

Claire uses her best stage voice. “He doesn't have her medicine.”

Kate's mouth falls into a confounded “O.” Jack shakes his head, as if he's never heard anything so foolish. Hurley doesn't say anything, just stares at Claire like she's ice cream on a hot day and he'd like to eat her up, feet first.

“He's lying,” Sayid says in a flat voice.

“No, he's not.” Claire hopes she's correct, because Sayid's look scares her more than Sawyer ever did.

Jack's fighting to stay reasonable. “Claire, Sawyer has Boone's novel. He must have gotten it from Boone's bags.”

“Why? Shannon told me right after the crash that Boone's suitcase burst open. His things were strewn all over the beach. The tide could have washed it away.”

The gentleness in Sayid's voice is worse than his earlier sharpness. “Claire, I know he can be very charming with women—”

Claire directs her words to Sayid, but her eyes are fixed on Hurley. “Sawyer's not my type.” 

He's someone's type, though. Claire can't miss how Jack's glance jerks straight over to Kate.

Kate says, “I believe her. Hurley, back me up here.”

Hurley's words tumble out as if on cue. “Sayid, dude, I know you're, like, Mr. Communications Officer. But if Claire says Sawyer doesn't have Shannon's meds, he doesn't. Besides, Jack fixed Shannon up real good. She looked great when I left. Boone was with her, and they were talking. No wheezy-breath, nothing.”

At Boone's name, Sayid steps back, his face shuttered once more. “I still don't trust Sawyer. And he should not be allowed to control vital medications.”

Kate throws her hands up in the air, plainly frustrated. “Nobody's saying he should, Sayid. But you and Jack can't just beat it out of him—”

“I can't?” Jack says, his voice breaking with frustration. “Really? The only thing holding me back is that somebody has to keep up a vestige of civilization.”

A crowd forms, but they keep their distance. Jack throws his hands up and stalks off, with Kate following close behind.

Sayid rubs his head, as if in sudden pain. 

“Dude, what's wrong?” Hurley says.

“Just the small matter that someone struck me in the head, that I was unconscious half the night, my equipment has been destroyed, we're no closer to finding the source of that radio transmission, a young girl is sick on account of that selfish, bigoted creature for whom dog is too good a word, and we are still on this bloody Island!” 

Speech delivered, Sayid sweeps away towards the shoreline and hunkers down, face covered.

Hurley stares at the space where Sayid was. “So, Claire, how'd you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Get Sawyer to tell you the truth.”

“I, uh, fed him our supper.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe we could go dig for clams?” 

In the shallow intertidal waters live the big clams called “gooey ducks,” with their obscenely long but delicious siphons. Claire isn't fond of sticking her arms in muddy water up to the shoulders, but a few of those clams make a full meal.

When Hurley smiles, his entire face lights up. It's hard to tell if his eyes are brown or dark olive green, and she's not sure she could get to the bottom of them either way. When he says, “Awesome,” she doesn't even hear him at first.

* * * * * * * *

Full to the brim with sliced clams smothered in chopped lemon-grass, Hurley and Claire sit in front of their small fire while their muddy clothes soak. She's wearing a bikini top which she scavenged, hoping that Hurley isn't grossed out by her stomach.

He must not be, because he gives her that look again, like Venus had risen out of the waves and joined him on the damp, sandy beach towel. The night hovers above, clear and cool, and when she starts to shiver, he wraps a blanket around her shoulders. It would be so easy to take hold of his hand, draw his arm around her, snuggle into his plush side.

She doesn't, though. She remembers another shore, another continent, where another man once looked at her as if she were the most beautiful creature on the planet, until he didn't any more. On an Australian beach he made love to her, his naked flesh silvery beneath the moon.

Now the consequences swell out before her, fish-belly pale and laced with dark pink stripes. She pulls the blanket over her stomach.

Hurley mistakes the gesture. “You cold?” 

“A little.”

“We could turn in.” Like her, he must be thinking of the two of them wrapped together, snug.

“In awhile. So, what 'botanical' was Jack talking about earlier?"

He scrunches his face, as if trying to remember. "That stuff koalas eat."

"Eucalyptus, right."

"Sun boiled it up in a stew, got Shannon to breathe it. She rubbed it all over Shannon's chest, too."

"So Shannon was okay when you left?”

“You should of seen Jack talk her down. It was awesome, like Obi-Wan scooby-doo-ing the stormtroopers.”

She hasn't a clue what he means, but it doesn't matter, as long as she can listen to the cadence of his voice. Then the unspoken question tumbles out. “Hurley, who do you think hit Sayid?”

When he frowns, the furry caterpillars of his dark brows meet right at the bridge of his nose. It seems quaint that only a fortnight ago they worried about dinosaurs and mastodons. 

The boar, the white bears: those aren't the most dangerous creatures in the jungle, are they?

When Hurley and Claire bed down, he tucks the two of them into a blanket burrito. Their middles squash together, and she helps herself to the pillow of his arm. As she sinks into sleep, whatever is out there seems very far away. For now, at least.

( _continued_ )


	10. Moonflower

A few days later, Sayid gathers together Scott Jackson and Steve Jenkins, and loads everyone down with packs and bedrolls. From the seashore, Hurley spies them as they leave. Huffing and puffing, he finally catches up to them. "Where are you guys headed?” 

The men glance at one another before Sayid speaks. “We're going to map the Island.” 

Steve adds, “If there's a dock, a village, anything, we'll never find it sitting around here.”

Scott claps Hurley on the shoulder. “Catch you on the flip side, man.” 

As they disappear around the coastline, it occurs to Hurley that Jack isn't going to like this.

Jack isn't as butt-hurt as Hurley fears, though. When Jack makes his morning beach rounds and hears the news, he simply says, “Hmm, good idea.”

Kate's the one who looks stricken. She and Shannon spend a long time talking, and oddly, Shannon seems less upset than Kate.

* * * * * * * *

Over the next week, days blend into a blue and gold haze. Piece by piece, the survivors dismantle the signal fire. The reflective metal plates make good cutting surfaces, and at mid-day, people fry tern's eggs on them. 

Freed from feeding the hungry fire, people have time for other work. Using pantomime, Sun teaches Claire, Sylvie, and Janice how to weave nets, slicing the cords with Kenneth and Brian's sharp knives. Four women working together can make a fishing net in a single day. 

After a morning of weaving, Claire says to Hurley, “You know, sometimes I think Sun understands us. If Sylvie says something funny, or Janice gets all rude, Sun just gets this look, like she knows what we're talking about. It's like she fights to keep from laughing.”

Other people on the beach have noticed this, too.

Shannon changes her tanning spot to a cluster of rocks, where she gazes eastward like a stranded mermaid. If Sayid returns from the same direction he left, she'll be the first to see him.

Hurley and Claire sleep like spoons now, his belly spreading to fill her curved back. She pulls his hand over her taut stomach, where tiny feet play a drum-line under his palm. Nothing's happening in the baby department, either, no Hixson-Bracks or whatever they're called, no more fainting, and her lower back's right as rain. 

Eventually the child in her belly rests, and so does Hurley. He falls asleep every night with his face buried in her hair, breathing in its fragrance of sunlight.

Each morning he wakes to find her nestled in a little closer. Embarrassed by his morning arousal, he pulls away from her, even if she murmurs in protest.

Further than this he dares not go. Her huge pregnancy makes it feels like trespassing, and there's little privacy. Some mornings an agony of desire seizes him, and he unwinds himself quickly, hoping she doesn't notice. If she does wake up, her misty glance holds him like a magnet. Unclaimed kisses hang in the air between them. 

Each morning, Hurley trudges to the caves, bearing loads of gooey-duck clams or dried octopus. Each morning, Claire follows him with her eyes, the same way his mom did when his dad would roar off on his bike to Uncle Emil's body shop. As if she isn't sure whether he'll come back or not.

Each afternoon Hurley returns, laden down with salted pork and jungle fruit, to find her stirring something in the pot. Grateful, he slurps down steamed mussels, or jack-fruit porridge spiced up with sliced pork. 

“I suppose I'm not as modern as I thought,” Claire says with a laugh in her voice.

These are good days, peaceful days. The lottery recedes from Hurley's mind. So does the curse of the Numbers, his four-month stay in the psych ward, and his missing prescriptions. Even though Dr. Brooks warned him about going cold-turkey, he hasn't missed the meds. 

What he hasn't forgotten, however, is that he has something to tell Claire.

* * * * * * * *

That night Hurley builds a small fire up the beach, out of the camp's earshot. Wrapped in a blanket, Claire joins him.

He tells her about the person he was, the one who broke a rickety deck at his cousin's graduation party, killing two of the guests. That person ate until he passed out, then woke up only to eat again. If his mother yelled at him to get up, that person would pull the sheets over his head and sob that there was no reason to, because he was so useless. When he started yelling about how the world would be better off without him, his mom called 911. 

The next thing he knew, cherries were flashing outside the living room window. At least they took him to the hospital in an ambulance, not a squad car.

Four months later he came back home: dazed from medication, twenty pounds lighter, still convinced that reality was a thin skin which might peel off at any second. His hospital stay made it possible for him to go through the motions, to "become functional" as Dr. Brooks put it. Not happy, not flourishing, but at least he got up every day and went to work, and didn't scare his mom anymore. 

Unnerved by Claire's silence, he waits for the verdict. He won't blame her if she bolts, but he doesn't know how he'll bear it if she does.

Finally she asks, “How do you feel now?” 

“Good. Like before the accident.”

She takes her hand in his, and he can barely believe it. Maybe she's not going to run, after all. 

She starts out hesitantly, and then her voice firms up. “After we crashed, something happened to the baby. He wasn't moving, and then all of a sudden, he did. Whatever it was, he was in big trouble, the sort where even a hospital might not help. Then something happened, and he's fine.”

“That's really awesome, Claire.”

“Look, I know what Jack would say that's unscientific mumbo-jumbo and all. But maybe there's something about this place, in the air, or the water...” Her voice trails off, unsure. “You heard Kenneth, that photographer. There's no trash on the beach, no oil slicks. Have you noticed that the birds don't have any bands around their legs?”

He hasn't.

“True, Joanna drowned, and Sayid got bashed on the head, but has anybody fallen ill? Really ill?”

Hurley thinks hard. “A couple people up at the caves caught a pretty gross foot fungus. And you got heat-sick.”

“That was dehydration. When I got a bit of water in me, I was fine. Listen, when I'd go to camp on holiday, the leaders were always nagging us about boiling our water. But here, we drink water from the cave spring, or the rain traps. Hurley, maybe it's this place.”

“This place? How?”

“I don't know.”

“You think we should, um, say something to Jack?”

“Sure, if you want him to think we're barking mad. Oh, sorry, I didn't mean that.”

“No, it's okay.” 

She gives him that look again, the one which greets him each morning. It's not enough for him to assume, though. “Claire?”

“Hmm?” 

He gulps, hard. “What happened to me... you know, the hospital and everything... Do you still... I mean, is this, all this, still okay—” 

Unable to continue, he just points down the beach towards their shelter, at everything they have. A few pieces of scrap metal for walls, with a blue tarp roof. A tote bag and three suitcases, the smallest one filled with makeshift diapers. Plates, and a battered pot pounded out of scrap metal. One of John Locke's knives, and the black obsidian one she prefers. Her khaki hat. His square blue do-rag. 

Either she's already made up her mind while he's been stammering away, or it was never a question to begin with. She says, “Yes.”

His nine-figure lottery wealth might as well be in another solar system, for all he cares. All that he has, all that he wants is right here on this beach, by this fire. 

For the first time, Hurley actually believes that old Australian lady who didn't blame the Numbers for her lost leg, or her husband's suicide. You make your own luck, Mr. Reyes, she had said. 

Sometimes your luck rests right in front of you, wrapped in a blue airline blanket.

Hurley leans in towards Claire. Her face lifts like a moonflower, the beautiful cactus which blooms only one night each year. Their mouths meet in mid-air, as they welcome and explore one another. Hurley's not used to kissing, so instead of breathing through his nose, he stops to take in air. She picks up where he leaves off, and he's drowning in one kiss after another, going down once, twice, then for the third and final time. 

Hurley's lost, and no one has ever been less willing to be rescued.

She stops kissing him and studies his face, her eyes fire-shadowed. Her cheeks are dark with blood, her lips half-parted and a little swollen from rubbing up against his beard. In his heart, tenderness and desire weave together as intricately as one of her nets. 

Claire cushions her head against his breast, letting out a deep sigh which sounds like his name.

When they bed down, she keeps a foot or so of distance between them. Before he has a chance to feel hurt, she strokes his hair a few times, then clasps his hand in hers. A deep flame licks his body from the inside out, making his skin glow with heat. One look at her flushed face tells him that she feels the same. Almost apologetic, she says, “It's kind of hot tonight.”

That's an understatement.

* * * * * * * *

Claire greets the day like some newborn creature which has just broken through the eggshell of the world. The ordinary beach, sun, and surf are all drenched with new light. 

Hurley's about to head to the caves when she says, “Can I tag along?”

They pass through the valley, and never has Claire seen anything so beautiful. Emerald trees blanket steep, scooped-out hillsides. Hawks glide on warm thermals, then swoop to the valley below, gripping their tiny, struggling prey as they rise. Stands of bushes burst with purple flowers, and spikes of pink ginger thrust up through the coarse grass.

The path is broad and wide, trodden flat by many trips. Too soon Claire and Hurley duck under interlaced green branches, which blot out most of the sunlight. It's here that Claire's stomach begins to churn with undefinable anxiety.

She's cold, too, in her sleeveless camisoles and short skirt. By the time they reach the cave entrance, she's shivering. Waterfall spray forms a clammy mist, and she clutches her arms together for warmth. There's a strong smell of mushrooms left too long in the refrigerator. 

As Jack rises to his feet, he gives Claire a quick, clinical assessment. “Everything going all right?”

She smiles a little, suddenly tongue-tied at the newness of the caves.

Jack points to some baggage piled near a small grotto. “There's some more luggage, Hurley, if you want to sort through it.”

Locke sits on a loft lashed together out of bamboo. He stops his carving long enough to nod in greeting, then resumes. Michael cuts bamboo poles into uniform lengths, probably for more loft-beds. Claire doesn't blame them for not wanting to sleep on the damp cave floor, where puddles of red mud stain her shoes. As Michael works, Walt nags about going to the beach to play Frisbee. 

“Not now,” Michael says. “Go find something to do. Just don't go off into the jungle.”

Charlie's guitar sits its open case, but Charlie's nowhere to be seen. Only Jack looks happy as he arranges his collection of prescription pill bottles, strips of home-made bandages, scissors and razor blades. His new “infirmary” is right out in the open, by the central waterfall. If someone comes to Jack for a visit, everyone else can see and hear.

Hurley calls out, “Claire, you got to look at this.”

“Coming.” 

He practically pulls her into the grotto, his voice full of conspiracy. “Check this out.”

“What are these, golf clubs?”

“Ssshhh!” 

Now they're both whispering, heads almost touching. “Why's it a secret?”

“Man, have you noticed how down in the dumps they are around here?”

From the adjacent cave, Walt ramps up the whining again, and it grates on Claire's nerves. “Fair point.”

Hurley's eyes gleam. “Be right back.”

He's gone longer than Claire expects. Water drips down the grotto's walls, which suddenly seem to close in on her, even though the opening is wide and breezy. She lowers herself to a lumpy rock, where dampness seeps through her skirt. 

All at once, Claire feels observed, scrutinized. Sweat coats her forehead, despite the chill. When a dark shape steps into the grotto, she lets out a startled cry.

“Take it easy,” says an insinuating voice. “I don't bite.”

She scrambles to her feet, but slips on cave mud. Ethan grabs her arm with one hand, her waist with the other. Her flesh crawls at the touch, and when she gets upright, she shakes him off. A brief flicker of anger passes across his face, then transforms itself into an ingratiating smile which shows too many teeth.

“Thanks.” She doesn't mean it.

“So, I bet you're moving in, right?” Ethan doesn't retreat, even though he's no longer touching her. When he takes half a step forward, she backs up into the cave wall, feeling its chill through her thin camisole.

She wonders if she can dart around him. Thankfully Hurley returns, filling up the grotto's entrance. “Hey, Claire, I got it.”

Ethan whirls around, and Claire almost swears he's ready to strike. When he sees the long machete in Hurley's hand, he starts speaking, rushed and anxious. “So, I see you found the luggage that Locke and I dragged out of the jungle last night.” 

Hurley tests the blade edge with his finger. “What's out in the jungle at night?”

“We were hunting those big raccoon-like things, gray fur, like an opossum.”

“Yum, yum.” Hurley sounds unconvinced. “Well, thanks, man. We'll take it from here.”

Hatred flashes across Ethan's features, but his tone is courteous. “I'll leave you to it, then.”

Hurley's face darkens like an approaching storm. Claire feels sorry for whoever gets caught in the downpour, but as Ethan leaves, the clouds pass. “Sorry, Claire. Locke talked my arm and leg off. Hey, could you grab those Hawaiian shirts?”

It's as if Ethan doesn't exist. Claire stuffs the flowered shirts into her tote bag. “So, what's going on?”

He doesn't answer, just laughs. It's not until they once more breathe the green freshness of the valley that he turns to her, full of warmth and fun. “We're gonna build a golf course.”

* * * * * * * *

As evening falls, Claire and Hurley troop back to the beach. She's exhausted, giddy with sun, her skirt splotched with grass stains, almost breathless from laughter. "That was great, when Jack hit it into the rough."

“Yeah, I could hear Kate all the way from the green, telling him to just drop it already.”

All in fun, Claire mimics Jack's voice. “'It's a matter of principle, Kate!'” 

“Guess I shouldn't have told people it was three par.”

“More like ten par.”

“People really liked hitting those walnut-things. Maybe tomorrow I should make a driving range up against that rock wall.”

“That'd be easier, I'd imagine. No need to whack grass.”

“Yeah, my arm's gonna be stiff as hell tomorrow.”

In the bush, something flickers out of the corner of Claire's eye, then disappears. She squelches anxiety, trying to remain calm. “Oh, God, remember when Charlie started climbing on you from behind. I thought I was going to choke.”

“Dude would of played every hole like that, if I let him.”

Night fills the tree canopy, and they still have halfway to go. Again Claire senses that they're being followed. No, not followed. Tracked. Stalked. She tugs on Hurley's hand, trying to speed up the pace. “It's almost dark.”

“No prob, Claire.” He loops her tote bag over his neck, where it bounces up and down against his big stomach as they hurry along. Claire loses the weird feeling of being spied on, but she still breathes a deep sigh of relief when they reach the night-drenched beach camp.

People are talking about the golf course, including Shannon and Boone. 

“Of course I play golf, dumb-ass,” Shannon says.

“Funny, I thought your sports tended more to the horizontal.” 

Hurley doesn't even drop his burdens before wedging himself in between Boone and Shannon. “Missed you guys up at the valley.”

“Well, I couldn't pry the princess here off her rock. Give it up, Shan. He's not coming back.”

“Boone, dude, that is so not cool.”

Suddenly, a few shouts ring out from down the beach, drawing people who wonder what's up. Above the gabble Hurley hears, “Hey, look, it's Sayid!” “Sayid, man, you're back—” “Scott, long time no see.” 

At Sayid's name, Shannon bolts towards the crowd, making it half-way before stopping frozen in her tracks.

Sayid strides in front, orange torch ablaze, while Scott and Steve bring up the rear. These three aren't what everyone's looking at, though. A woman marches beside them, head held high as she surveys the crowd. Greyish hair tumbles over her shoulders, and olive camo hangs loosely on her muscular frame. 

What silences the group isn't her strange appearance. That honor goes to the rifle casually slung over her shoulder, and the laden ammo belt which encircles her narrow hips.

Sawyer pokes his head out of his tent as they pass. “Well, if it ain't Abba-Dabba and the rest of the caravan. Hoo-boy, what popped out of Aladdin's magic lamp?”

Sayid ignores him. He calls out, “Where are Jack and Kate?”

Boone says, “They're at the caves.”

“Then perhaps someone won't mind asking Jack to join us first thing in the morning, for an affair of state. He and Kate should be here.”

Boone swallows hard, as if afraid. “I'll go.” One last nervous look at the strange woman, and he disappears in a flash, Sayid's torch in hand.

“He doesn't like guns,” Shannon says to Sayid with a severe look. “And neither do I.”

Sayid breaks into a small smile. “It's all right, Shannon.” To her and the rest he says, “Everyone, this is Danielle. Danielle Rousseau.”

( _continued_ )

**(A/N: "The eggshell of the world" phrase was inspired by _Revolutionary Girl Utena_.) **


	11. A Knife in the Dark

Jack, Kate, and Boone arrive at the beach camp at dawn the next morning, everyone panting as if they had run the entire way. Sayid, Scott, and Steve have spent the entire night keeping watch on Danielle. 

Although Jack wants to pepper Danielle with questions, Claire and Shannon have already clustered around her. They offer her a pink fish, one of the fat ones which everybody prizes. 

Danielle's heavily-accented words come out roughly, as if she's not used to talking. _“Merci beaucoup. Je ne mange pas souvent de fruits de mer.”_

Claire pauses, confused. “Sorry?”

Shannon translates. “Not much seafood in the jungles of Craphole Island.” To Danielle she says, _“Vous êtes Français?”_

Danielle breaks into a bright smile and inundates Shannon with a stream of French, then stops when Shannon protests, _“Je ne parle un peu Français, désolé. désolé.”_

“I have not heard my language in ever so long. Forgive me.” 

Danielle's gaze roves up and down Claire's pregnant belly. There's a whole story in that glance, and Claire suddenly shivers, as if going on-stage for the first time. 

When Danielle slices off a strip of filet and stuffs it into her mouth, Shannon says, “Don't you want to use that fire over there?”

 _“C'est délicieux comme ça.”_ In a few moments the fish has been reduced to bones, and Danielle snaps off one of the ribs to pick her teeth. 

Jack's been watching Danielle like a hawk, waiting for her to finish eating. Before he can dive in, Scott and Steve launch into a rendition of how they found her. Scott commands the center of attention. “So, Sayid spots this weird cable, coming out of the ocean—”

Steve interrupts. "And we follow it into the forest, till it disappears."

“But then there's this trail.”

“And it's beautiful out there, man, vines everywhere, big trees all like ropes, with paths through them that you can walk through—”

Their two voices merge into one, so that it's hard to tell who's talking.

“Then, I dunno what comes over this doofus here, he starts to sing—”

“Come on, man, you joined right in. Sayid didn't know the song at first, though.”

Steve breaks into a funny kind of dance routine, and Scott joins him. “If there's somethin' strange in your neighborhood...”

“If there's somethin' weird, and it don't look good...”

“Who you gonna call?” 

This time Sayid joins in, as well as a few of the crowd. _“Ghostbusters!”_

Claire doesn't know the song, but Kate bends over, trying not to explode with laughter. Hurley isn't so restrained, and shakes with laughter.

Sayid, Scott, and Steve act out a few more verses, until everyone in earshot is shouting out the one-word chorus. 

Hurley chants the counter-melody. “I ain't afraid o' no ghost! I ain't afraid o' no ghost!” 

When Danielle clears her throat to speak, everyone falls quiet. “You have to understand, that song... When the film reached France, my Robert took me to see it. We had just met. We laughed so hard, the tears came to our eyes.”

She recovers her composure. “That is how I knew these men were not Others. In all of my sixteen years on this Island, I have never heard Others sing.”

 _Sixteen years?_ Claire can't believe her ears at first. She's been here that long? 

Steve pipes up, “We had to do the whole thing over for her, to convince her that we weren't them.”

“That's when she put her gun down,” Scott adds.

“Much to everyone's relief.” Sayid's tone is light, but his expression isn't.

The crowd's attention has shifted. Each person picks up the word, turns it over and passes it on to the next one. “Others?” “What 'Others?'” “What in the hell are 'Others?'”

Above the chatter, Sayid says, “We are not alone on this Island. There are other people, and Danielle has encountered them. We find ourselves in new circumstances.” 

Sayid pulls Jack over to a quiet spot, where they begin an intent conversation. Nearby, Shannon and Kate put their heads together as well. The sun has risen high and bright now, casting glittering coins of light over the ocean. 

As if unaware of the bomb she's dropped, Danielle stands silent and bemused. 

Claire wants to make sure she heard Danielle correctly. “You've been here sixteen years? And nobody rescued you?”

Danielle shrugs, resigned. “I've made the best of it. Your child, it will come soon?”

“Another couple of weeks.”

Shannon charges up to Danielle and Claire, unmistakable scorn in her voice. “Can you believe that Boone's still up at the caves with Locke? Biggest news we've had since the crash, and they can't be bothered. Today they leave for some kind of 'test of manhood' thing. Charlie and Ethan, too.”

Danielle snaps up her head at the mention of Ethan's name, then readjusts her rifle, as if to reassure herself that it's still there. 

The tiny movement draws Claire's attention. “Danielle? Is everything all right?”

Danielle's small smile doesn't reach her eyes. _“Tout va bien.”_

Shannon turns to Danielle. “Since God's gift to mankind is on a sleep-over, do you want to share my tent? Just as long as you don't shoot anybody with that.”

Hurley says, “I'll second that emotion.” 

When Claire reaches for his hand, Danielle gives them both the once-over. “Your child will be beautiful, especially if she gets her father's hair.”

Hurley glows beet-red, while Claire sputters, “Oh, no, it's not like that... I mean, we're not—”

 _“Pardonnez-moi._ I just assumed.”

Now it's Claire's turn to flush. “You're right. He would have beautiful hair.”

* * * * * * * *

That night, the knowledge that they aren't alone on the Island weighs heavily on Claire, and it takes her a long time to get to sleep.

Screaming sea-gulls wake her in the dead of night, but not Hurley. He cuddles her against his belly, sheltering her like a wall, and his maleness pokes at half-mast. Whatever dream he's having, it must be a good one. 

Her body has finally given in to pregnancy, and she can barely remember what her old flesh felt like. She's used to it now, except for the getting up at night part. After the baby punches her bladder a few times, she wiggles out from under Hurley's arm with a little sigh. 

Before bedding down with Kate for the night, Jack has given an order. They are to use the buddy system, even if only to duck behind a tree. No exceptions. 

Claire can't bear to wake Hurley, exhausted as he was from golfing and the ballyhoo over Danielle. He's stopped dreaming and is now deeply asleep, the kind it's hardest to rouse someone from.

It's just a quick trip to the loo. What could go wrong?

Her obsidian knife is sharp enough to shave without a single nick. Cradling the haft in her hand, careful not to cut herself in the dark, Claire heads for her favorite tree.

Rustling noises in the night-time jungle are common, but the creeping sensation of being followed makes the tiny hairs on her arms prickle. Still gripping her knife, she struggles one-handed until her jeans are back up, her shirt down.

The jungle is silent now. Maybe it was stupid to bring a knife just to use the loo. The news about “Others” has gotten to everyone. Everyone expects someone to just—

The ambush slams Claire hard from behind, knocking the wind out of her. Arms like iron bands pin her arms to her sides. Without thinking, she lifts her right knee and kicks backward as hard as she can. All she connects with is a rock-hard shin-bone instead of a knee-cap. 

Her flesh creeps at the low familiar chuckle. She stands paralyzed in the tight grip. Her attacker's body is as hard and muscular as his arms, and he's tall, too.

His grip loosens. Her skin crawls with revulsion as he caresses the whole length of her belly, like he was the farmer and she a prize ewe. He pulls her in closer.

Rage whips through her. She slashes downward with the obsidian knife as hard as she can. When she hits resistance, she pushes harder. The knife drags outwards through skin and muscle. He screams like a wounded animal, soaking Claire's jeans with hot blood. 

He shakes her violently, and the knife falls to the ground. Then Claire hears a loud click, the release of the safety catch on a rifle. 

Claire's captor freezes. From the way he jerks forward, someone must be aiming directly at the back of his head.

“Drop her,” comes Danielle's husky voice.

When he does, Claire scrabbles away, screaming. The jungle comes alive with pounding footsteps. Kate drags her away, but Claire keeps screaming until Hurley thumps up with loud, labored breath. 

Jack yells, “Sayid! Over here!”

Kate grips Claire securely in her arms, while Danielle holds Ethan Rom at gunpoint. 

“Down,” Danielle growls. When he doesn't move, she smacks her rifle, crack, against his head. Ethan drops to his knees, the muzzle buried in the back of his neck. Dark crimson blood soaks his right trouser leg, and the stain is growing fast.

Kate passes Claire to Hurley. When he sees the blood on Claire's jeans, he cries out, “Jack, Claire's hurt!”

Claire can barely speak, her teeth are chattering so hard. “That's not my blood.”

Danielle regards Ethan like a scorpion under her boot. “Say it. Say what I told you to.”

As Jack approaches, Danielle snaps, “Get back.”

“Danielle, he could bleed out.”

She jabs the rifle harder against Ethan's neck. “'I can do it if you want me to, Ben.' Say it.”

Ethan smirks, but he starts to sway, too. Even in the torch-light, he's very pale.

Frustration shreds Jack's voice. “Danielle, please, I've got to put a tourniquet on him—”

Suddenly Ethan speaks in childish, mocking tones. “I can do it if you want me to, Ben. It's my first time, Ben. I've never killed a woman and a kid before.”

In the torch light, Danielle's face is as white as Ethan's, but she doesn't tremble, not the tiniest bit. In fact, she seems to relax, as if something which troubled her for many years has just been resolved.

Jack commands, “Hurley, take Claire back to camp. Now.”

Hurley lifts Claire bridal-style and starts to run. Branches and hanging vines block their way, but he bends his shoulder forward like a linebacker to push through them.

A single gun-shot rings out, sending night-birds screaming into the air.

* * * * * * * *

Sayid and Jack drag Ethan's body back to camp, and dump it out of sight behind a copse of shrubs. Danielle wanders over to the nearest camp-fire, where she cleans her rifle as calmly as if back from target practice. 

Hurley sets Claire down by their shelter, heart thundering from the run, the panic, and a slow-burning rage. He's not even sick from all the blood, because he's so angry. 

Tears spill down Claire's face, and when she licks one off the corner of her lip, most of Hurley's rage turns to sorrow. But not all.

With Kate right behind him, Jack kneels beside Claire. He's as composed as if he were in the LA County General ER, calming a frightened patient. “Claire, I'd like to take a look at you, if that's okay.”

The hardening blood is thick and Jack can't even see her skin. “We've got to get her cleaned up first.”

Kate says, “Come on, honey, let's get these wet things off.” Then, to Hurley, “Give us some privacy, okay?”

“No!” Claire seizes Hurley's hand with her blood-soaked one. He winces at the slippery touch, but doesn't let go.

“All right, then.” Kate pulls at Claire's resisting jeans, stuck to her skin with congealed blood. “Hurley, give me a hand.”

With Hurley on one side, Kate on the other, and some wiggling from Claire, the bloody jeans slide off. Splotches reach half-way up her camisole, and she yanks that off, too. In the pale moonlight, standing there in her bra and panties, Claire's whole right side is a gory mess. 

Ice-bucket panic dumps over Hurley. As his rage fades, he shakes like jelly.

Jack dabs at patches of blood with a damp rag. “I don't think she's bleeding. But I can't be certain.”

“I told you, I'm not cut,” Claire says in a hoarse whisper.

“Oh, my God,” Kate says. “It's all over her underwear too. Do you think—”

Before Kate can finish, Claire shakes herself free of Hurley. Stumbling away, she rips off her bra with a tearing sound, then strips off her underpants as if they burn her. 

All Hurley can do is stare. Not at how she glows in the moonlight, beautiful despite the blood, the terror, and being so visibly pregnant, but at how much of a wild thing she is. 

Claire shoots one fierce glance at them all, then dashes towards the sea. At first, everyone is too stunned to follow her.

Jack and Kate head towards her when Hurley says, “I got this.” 

He gives chase, cursing his slowness. She's already thigh-high in the churning waves, her buttocks pale and streaked with blood. 

By the time he reaches her, she's gone deeper into the pounding surf. He doesn't touch her, just stands watchful, ready to grab her if she goes under. The moon bleaches her skin bone-white, leaving her nipples and stretch-marks as dark as her haunted, tearful eyes. Ethan's blood appears black in the silvery light. 

Waves lap in steady rhythm against Claire's enormous belly, and each one carries away more black blood. With each surge of ocean water she grows more pearly, cleaner. 

She submerges herself completely, then breaks through the foaming water like a seal. Her sea-washed nakedness shows that there isn't a mark on her. 

Hurley does something he never thought he'd do on this beach or any other. Even in LA, he always swam with a t-shirt. Now he strips his off as he leads Claire to shore. When they reach the shallows, he pulls the dark-green shirt over her body. It covers her to her knees.

Together they plow through the shifting sands towards the shore. As he clutches Claire to his side, Hurley tries to ignore the massed crowd and his exposed, quivering nakedness.

Kate charges through, arms outstretched. “Give them some room, all right?”

Back at Hurley and Claire's shelter, Jack fights to keep his voice neutral. “May I?” 

“Okay.”

With Kate and Hurley as a screen, Jack lifts the long green t-shirt to examine Claire's hip and side. When a thought flickers across Jack's face, Kate and Hurley exchange looks, thinking the same thing.

Jack's casual tone is clearly forced. “So, Claire, no contractions? No bleeding?”

She shakes her head, appealing to Hurley. He squeezes her hand, full of dread.

“Good,” Jack says with a warm smile, before lowering the boom. “Claire, one last thing. I have to ask this. Ethan, did he—”

At this monstrous suggestion, Hurley's heart almost breaks.

Claire stares at Jack for a second, then bursts out, “ _No!_ Nothing like that! That wasn't what he wanted. It was the baby. He was after the baby.”

Hurley's about ready to boil over. 

Whatever Jack was going to say, he sees Hurley's face, and thinks better of it. “Okay, Claire, that's all I need to know. Try to get some rest.”

All through this, Danielle has been sitting alone by the fire, wearing a Mona Lisa smile and looks pretty pleased with herself. 

Jack and Kate find their usual talking spot by the tide pool, and put their heads together. Their quiet presence soothes Hurley's anger like a balm. As far as he's concerned, when the two of them sit by the shore like that, everything feels so much more under control.

One last thing, though. Claire's blood-stained clothes lie in a lump by their shelter, so he drags them away and covers them with sand. Tomorrow, when they plant Ethan in the ground, Hurley will have a little burial of his own. 

He crawls into their shelter, that cramped space almost too small for the towering emotions which swamp him like waves. She's huddled under a blanket, but as soon as he sits down, she crawls into the circle of his arms. In all the hullabaloo, he's forgotten to put on a new shirt, and he trembles as her hands slide over his naked skin. Her sea-dampened hair tickles his chest.

He's about to kiss her when the tone in her voice stops him. “I'm going to have my baby here, aren't I?”

Lying isn't an option. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“With people out there who take kids.”

“A long time ago. Maybe, um, there are different people now.”

“Maybe.” 

“Jack's gonna do an awesome job, even if he's a surgeon.” 

Her soundless chuckle vibrates through his body. “Obstetricians _are_ surgeons, silly. And all doctors practice delivering babies.”

He doesn't mind one bit if she calls him “silly,” or smiles when he doesn't know something, especially in the baby department. Her simple trust in Jack comforts them both.

Her voice comes out even smaller than before. “Will you, uh, be there? I mean, with me?”

At first he doesn't know what she means, and then he does. He puts everything into his answer: heart, body, soul. “Totally.”

With a contented sigh, she cushions herself on his breast before fading into sleep.

As Hurley drifts off, he tells himself that maybe this St. Joseph deal isn't so bad after all. There are worse mangers in which to shelter this tender Madonna of the Island in her over-sized shirt green as Guadalupe's robe. There are worse places to rest than at her feet, holding her up as she balances on the slender curve of the moon. 

His last conscious thought is, _I can do this._

( _continued_ )


	12. Numerology

Morning noises tell Claire that there's something different about the beach, even if the tarp flap is still lowered from the night before, when Hurley closed the two of them in a protective cocoon. More foot-steps move to and fro. People's voices buzz louder than the usual dawn chatter. 

The night before. Even if Claire had wanted to forget that dreadful grip from behind, the blood, the lone shot ringing out in the night, her sore muscles won't let her. Wincing, she struggles into a pair of jeans, then emerges into a cool, overcast morning. 

Hurley's at her side at once, looking her over as if something might be bent or even broken. But she doesn't feel broken. 

His tone is full of warmth. "I thought you'd wanna sleep in."

"I did. Thanks." 

All at once it hits her that one missed step, one wrong slice of the blade, and she might not even be here, shivering in Hurley's green shirt. A long shudder goes through Claire, what her grandmother used to call "a goose walking over your grave."

Hurley drapes a blanket over her, and she snuggles close to his warm body as tears sting her eyes. People pass by to the gathering by the central fire, but they give Hurley and Claire space to breathe. The moment passes, and she feels a little stronger. 

"Come on," he says in a gentle voice. "Rose boiled some breadfruit. Kinda mushy, but not bad."

* * * * * * * *

Kathy, Shana, and Kate hover as Claire eats the soggy breadfruit. Kate says, “Danielle buried him this morning.” 

Shana's dark eyes gleam in her bronze face. “You did good, Claire. Kate, what did Jack call it? The femoral vein?”

“Shana, I don't think—” Kate doesn't want Claire to hear.

In her firm teacher-voice, Kathy says, “Kate, keeping it from Claire won't help. Claire, you sliced his femoral vein clean through, and nicked the artery as well. Even if Danielle hadn't shot him, he would have been dead in ten minutes.”

For a few seconds Claire reels, woozy. The blade, the resistance. Her angry, terrified push. The hot spurt of blood.

“There was nothing Jack could have done,” Shana said. “Right, Kate?”

“Claire, are you okay?” Kate says. “Kathy, this is why—”

Claire takes a few deep breaths. “I'm fine, guys. Really.”

Kate leans in to Claire, face full of concern. “You did what you had to do.”

“Amen,” Shana says.

They're interrupted by Jack. “Everybody from the caves who's coming is here. We might as well get started.” Before he moves to the center of the crowd, he shoots Kate a cool look across the bow, like they've recently disagreed about something. 

Kate helps Claire to her feet. “Jack wanted it to be just a few of us, when Danielle told her story. I talked him into including everyone.”

“Live together, or we die alone,” Claire says. 

Kate laughs, her mood lightening a little. “Sometimes he needs a reminder.” She dashes off to join Jack at the center of the crowd.

People move aside to let Claire pass. Hurley flanks her on one side, Shannon on the other.

The two women survey each other for damages, and Shannon speaks first. "That creepazoid. I knew it. You okay?"

“Just sore. I got yanked around a bit. How about you?"

Shannon shrugs, as if turning blue from an asthma attack is nothing. "Like it didn't even happen."

Claire wishes she could say the same. 

Rose puts in her two cents. "You two girls need to take it easy today. You've been through a lot.”

“Yes, Mom.” For once, Shannon's not even sarcastic.

Except for Locke, Boone, and Charlie, everyone who has moved to the caves or spent a lot of time there is now back on the beach. Walt runs up and down in the swash like he's been let out of a cage, his dog bounding behind him. 

Claire whispers to Shannon, “So Boone left after all?”

“Straight from the caves. Didn't even pass by the beach to pass 'Go' and collect his two hundred dollars.” 

Sayid sidles next to Shannon, not displeased at all by Boone's absence. “He'll be fine. He's in good hands.”

Shannon just rolls her eyes. Eventually the murmuring stops, and all eyes rest on Jack.

"Here we go," Hurley says. “It's showtime."

* * * * * * * *

Danielle's story is horrifying from the very beginning. Sixteen years ago, her scientific team washed up onshore, while she was late in pregnancy. 

"Science team? You mean, like Jacques Cousteau?" Brian asks. At the mention of the famous French oceanographer, a little laughter ripples through the group.

Rose is full of indignation. “Who takes a pregnant woman on a scientific expedition?” 

Claire doesn't say anything. For that matter, who takes a trans-Pacific flight in her eighth month? 

Danielle's words come out so softly that Jack has to repeat them. " _Non,_ not Jacques Cousteau. _Le Centre d'expérimentation du Pacifique._ "

"His pronunciation sucks," Shannon remarks. 

Claire leans across Shannon to Sayid. "Have you ever heard of that?"

Sayid frowns. "If I'm not mistaken, it was the French military's nuclear weapons test program.”

Shannon clearly doesn't approve of Danielle's camouflage. "That explains her fashion statement."

“And the rifle,” Sayid adds. 

Jack's losing momentum, at a loss to keep the crowd's attention, so Sayid moves up to join him. "Please, Jack, allow me." Jack yields with a look of relief.

Sayid approaches Danielle until he is very close. "Who are these other people on the Island, Danielle? How long have they been here?" 

He's just getting warmed up. 

Danielle struggles to answer Sayid's barrage of questions. "No, I don't know how long they've been here... Perhaps since World War II, or slightly after... No, I flee when they approach. I don't engage them... Yes, they have _avant-postes militaires_ all over the Island. You might call them 'stations...' Some are in use, but not all. Those I scavenge from, to stay alive.”

Sayid pauses for a few breaths, considering. “You said you were pregnant when your team was shipwrecked. Where is your child now?”

White, trembling, Danielle's composure starts to crumble. "Shortly after I had given birth, two young men came to my tent. Others, both armed. They took her, and told me they would kill me if I pursued them. One of those men I buried this morning."

“Where's the other one?” Shannon murmurs.

Sawyer says, "One down, one to go.”

Danielle ignores this. "I believe the Others still have her, that she is a hostage."

Claire can't stifle a surge of panic. The greed in Ethan's eyes. His hands roving over her stomach. Took her soon after birth, Danielle said.

It sinks into Hurley, too. “No way, Claire. No way that's gonna happen.”

The stunned crowd falls silent as Sayid digests this, chin in hand. 

In the pause, Danielle collects herself and changes the subject. She and her team found the source of the signal which brought them to the Island, emanating from a radio tower high in the mountains. How difficult it was to override the original signal, so that they could send out their distress call.

"What original signal?" Sayid says, suddenly fierce. “What was it that you heard?”

Danielle lapses into vagueness. Numbers, an endless sequence of six numbers, meaningless. “ _Absurdité folle qui n'avait aucun sens..._ ” Eventually she defeated the overrides. Not that it did her any good, because no one ever came.

At “Numbers, endless numbers," Hurley starts to tremble. He's pale, his mouth slack with surprise.

Sayid isn't satisfied. "What numbers? Some kind of encoded transmission?"

Danielle begins to recite, "Four, eight, fifteen, sixteen..."

Hurley picks up the chant, as if he knows it by heart. "Twenty-three, forty-two," and then repeats it under his breath, lost in the sequence.

"Do those mean anything to you?" Jack asks Sayid.

Sayid gazes off, as if internally calculating. "It's not a Fibonacci sequence, not a triangular progression, either. Offhand, I don't recognize it."

"I think we've got more to worry about than some old code," Jack says, his voice tinged with frustration. 

Kate shrugs, clearly impatient, and raises her voice over the murmuring crowd. "Danielle, I'm sorry if this sounds harsh. But there's something I have to know."

Everyone is quiet, even Hurley. Claire takes his hand, which is clammy and cold as ice. At least he's stopped that eerie chant.

Danielle nods, _Go on._

Kate says, "Where's the rest of your team?"

A guarded mask drops over Danielle like a veil. "Dead. All of them dead, killed by the security system."

Sayid's stare would bore holes in Danielle, if it could. It's clear that he doesn't believe her.

"Security system?" Jack says, his voice rising. "That's what we're calling it?"

Kate gives Jack one regretful look before speaking. "On the second day that we were here, Jack, Charlie and I found the front section of the plane.”

Murmurs rise up from the group, growing louder.

“There's something we didn't tell you." Kate pauses, as if for strength. “After the crash, the pilot was still alive.”

Sayid strides over to Kate's side, his voice ringing with warning. "Kate, I thought we said—"

"No, Sayid, _you_ said to keep it under wraps. You and Jack."

Sawyer's been pacing back and forth through all of this. Now he calls out, "Sounds like Freckles is leaking some classified documents. What else did y'all not tell us?"

Kate flinches under the sting of Sawyer's words. "That thing out in the jungle, whatever it was, it dragged the pilot out of the plane. It carried him up into a tree and..." She's choking up now, barely able to go on. "It ripped him to pieces. His guts were hanging from the tree like party streamers."

Someone gasps. It's Sun, the Korean woman who isn't supposed to understand English. Jin gives her a fierce, amazed look, and grabs her by the arm. She shakes him off, rattles something at him in Korean. Everyone's silent now, watching this not-so-surprising development. Whatever she's said to her husband has left him as slack-jawed as Hurley. Then she tells him in accented but clear English, "Leave me alone.”

"Hoo boy," Sawyer says. "Tokyo Rose got a few surprises up her cashmere sleeve."

Jin looks about ready to strike his wife. Kathy and Shana elbow through the crowd, full of purpose, until they reach Sun and Jin. Jane, Sylvie and a few other women follow, along with Michael. If Jin lays a hand on Sun, he'll have a mob of angry people to deal with. Everyone knows how tough Jin is; they've seen him in action when he fought with Michael weeks ago. But no one is going to let him hurt Sun.

Jin looks at the crowd, cornered. Sun says something else to him, and he snaps back at her. 

To Danielle, Sun says, "My husband does not believe something could do that. So tell us, please. What was that? What is it?"

When Danielle doesn't answer at once, Sawyer bellows, "Let me put it more clearly for you, No No Nanette. What the hell kind of security system rips a man apart?" 

Claire can't hear Danielle's answer, because Hurley has started to chant the sequence of numbers again. Anxiety pours over Claire like ice-water. 

Jack, Kate, and Sayid are all talking at once, while Jin shouts incomprehensibly at Sun. She yells right back, and now he does grab her arm. Michael and the rest of the women move in to form a wedge between Sun and her husband.

But Claire can't worry about Sun, because Hurley starts to hyperventilate. His ragged breathing almost sounds like Shannon's did. When he clutches his chest, Claire thinks of his heart line, that jagged streak across his mysterious palm. 

Claire grabs Sawyer by the arm. "Help me get Hurley out of here." 

Sawyer hesitates, and Claire can almost hear the wheels turn in his mind, calculating what's in it for him.

The sum must be weighted in Claire's favor, because Sawyer says to Hurley, "Come on, Gordo, we're gettin' some air."

Hurley doesn't even look at Sawyer. He starts to rock a little in place, repeating the string of numbers.

"I sure as hell can't drag him," Sawyer hisses to Claire. "Got any ideas?"

Claire stretches up on tiptoe, brushes Hurley's curls aside in order to bring her lips close to his ear. "Listen, Hurley, let's take a walk, okay?"

When he faces her, tears well up in his eyes.

"Claire, are you sure this is a good idea?” Sawyer says. “The man looks cra—"

"Sawyer, I swear to God— Please, Hurley. Please come on."

Amazingly, it works. With Sawyer on one side, Claire on the other, it doesn't take much to get Hurley to move. They lead him down to the sea-strand, where the tide comes in with blind, endless repetition. Maybe the sound of waves will calm Hurley down. 

"We're just going to talk, Sawyer," Claire says. "Thanks." 

"You sure you can handle Papa Bear, Goldilocks?" Sawyer gives Hurley a dubious side-eye, as if he's not sure he wants to leave Claire alone with him. "You need anything, just holler." As he heads back to the melee, he glances over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

* * * * * * * *

As Claire walks Hurley out of earshot, the movement seems to still his frantic breathing. When they reach a tide-pool surrounded by rocks and driftwood, she sits and he mechanically follows.

"Hurley, look at me." There's enough of Aunt Lindsey in her tone to get his attention.

Before Claire fell pregnant, she took a few yoga classes to help with flexibility for dancing, and for the meditation, too. She breathes in slowly and deeply, keeping him fixed in her gaze. 

In, deep into the belly. Out, count to five, feel the air as it leaves the lungs, cleansing them. In and out, rise and fall. Gradually, his breathing slows down. He clutches her hands in his fish-cold grip, those baffling tears still clinging to his eyelids and refusing to fall.

The faint clamor of the beach fades away. All at once, Hurley pitches forward onto Claire's lap. 

Was he collapsing or something? No, nothing like that. He's just resting his head on her thigh, face pressed into her belly, his arms wrapped around her waist. The baby kicks a few times, then settles down. Claire strokes Hurley's hair in time with his breath. 

After awhile he pulls himself up, but won't look at her. 

"What happened back there? You can tell me."

"When I was at the hospital... Oh, crap, Claire, I didn't tell you even the half of it." 

In a voice dry as beach sand he rasps out his extraordinary tale. He first heard the numbers from a fellow patient named Lennie Sims. Who heard them in the US Navy almost twenty years ago. Whose buddy Sam Toomey in the Royal Australian Navy heard them too, and that's who Hurley had gone to see in Kalgoorlie.

The numbers, Hurley tells her, it all comes back to the numbers. But when people use the numbers, it wrecks their lives. When he used them to play the lottery, he won big. 

“You won the lottery?” 

“Yeah. I went to talk to Lennie afterwards. He told me I 'opened the box,' whatever that meant.”

"Pandora's box, it sounds like.”

Hurley's never heard of that.

“Pandora wasn't supposed to open it, but she did. Then all the troubles of the world poured out."

"That's the numbers all right. You use them, you're cursed. I thought when we crashed, I'd gotten away from them, far as I could. Until today.”

"Curse? What curse?"

Hurley springs to his feet and paces under a white sky that washes everything to bleached paleness. Wind makes his shirt billow like a sail. "Here we are, stuck on this Island just like Danielle." 

Claire can't follow all this. She pulls herself to her feet, stiff and unsteady. "What's Danielle got to do with this?"

"Don't you get it? Danielle's team heard the numbers. They brought her here, just like my curse brought us. Because I think I crashed our plane."

Claire's had enough. "Stop it," she says, low and urgent. "How could you have been responsible for that?"

“Claire, you got to get away from me. Death follows me. Bad things happen to people when they're around me.”

The sand seems to collapse under her feet, but rising anger props her up. “Get _away_ from you? Or maybe you want to get away from _me_ , but don't have the stones to say it.” 

Before he can see her cry, she turns away. Of all the bloody ridiculous excuses, worse than Thomas, even. Cursed? Bloody hell, she was so stupid, what was she thinking?

When he touches her arm, his hand is no longer cold. “Claire, I don't want to get away from you. Ever.”

“Then what's all this tosh, that I can't be near you?” She can't look at him yet, as she's still too furious.

"I just don't want anything bad to happen to you."

She whirls around. "Pushing me away because of some stupid curse is a very bad thing."

"It would mega-suck for me, too. Really." He ponders for a second, thinking. "So, those numbers... You think they're, like you say, tosh?"

“I don't know what they are. But if you want to leave me, say it to my face.” 

Oh, sweet relief, Hurley's back from wherever he's been for the past hour. His words come out strong and firm, so that Claire can't help but believe him. “I don't want to leave you. It's just that these numbers... they're bad.”

“Look over there, Hurley.” She points to the water-line, where a gull dive-bombs a crab. They watch as the bird rips off crab-legs like a kid tearing into a package of gummy snakes, then pecks the shell apart with its beak. "Is that crab cursed?"

"Uh, no. That's just what seagulls do."

"So the crab wasn't under a curse."

"It's part of life, I guess."

"And that polar bear which Sawyer shot, what if it had eaten him instead? Would Sawyer have been cursed?"

Hurley frowns, not liking where this is going, but not able to argue with her, either. "Nah, prob'ly not."

"Like you said, it's all part of life." 

"That's exactly what Sam's widow told me in Kalgoorlie. Things happen, people die."

"Kalgoorlie's a mining town, Hurley. The old-timers there are tough, because they had to be." Her anger has washed away in the tide along with the crab carcass. "I don't know why things happen the way they do. But out of all of this, I did meet you. If you don't regret it, that is.” 

Some huge certainty fills her, a soaring, immense revelation. The surface of the world seems to crack, and light pours in, just like broad beams of sun burn off the fog, melting the pearl-gray overcast. 

He opens his arms to her, his face full of warmth and appeal. "Claire, I'm so sorry. Panic attacks, they suck."

"You heard something that scares you. I've been scared, too." 

He looks her full in the face, his words rich with weight. "We can do this."

"Yes, Hurley, I think we can. But you've got to let me know what's going on."

"It's kinda like Truth or Dare, I guess. Without the Dare part." His tender smile draws her into his warm, pliant embrace. Beneath the flesh, his heart beats with slow reliability. 

From across the beach, the group still looks and sounds as if it's in a furor. Claire couldn't care less, lost as she is in those hazel-brown eyes which twinkle, but no longer with tears. 

Kate runs up, giving a little cough before she speaks. "Guys, I'm sorry, but could you come back? Danielle's leaving, and Jack says he's going with her." Kate's frown shows that she's not pleased with this, not one bit. "He says he's going to find the Others."

( _continued_ )


	13. Kiss Paradise Goodbye

Claire and Hurley kick up sprays of sand, trying to keep up with Kate as she runs to the beach camp. Tugged by Claire's hand, Hurley practically floats behind her like a great parade balloon, rendered almost weightless by sheer relief. Even after Claire heard his story about the Numbers, she didn't turn tail and run. 

Baby steps, as Dr. Curtis used to say. First one foot, then the other. A thousand-mile journey begins with a single step, yadda yadda. Who knows, maybe all that fortune-cookie stuff has something behind it. 

Something is grinding Kate's gears, for sure. What hoo-ha have Jack and Sayid gotten into now?

At the beach camp the two men argue. Sayid's low, calculating tones blend with Jack's higher-pitched, more urgent ones as Sawyer smokes and watches with a calculating eye.

Heads together, Shannon and Danielle talk in melodious French, ignoring the quarreling men. Danielle gives Hurley a cheeky, knowing glance as he passes, and his blushes bring him down to earth. 

Sun has disappeared from the beach, and Jin fishes alone, a disgusted look on his face. Even though Jack and Sayid still debate, the show's pretty much over. Most of the survivors return to their fires to tend supper, or split coconuts, or tighten their tents against the inevitable evening rain.

“So if she wanted to find her child that badly,” Sayid says to Jack through gritted teeth, “why hasn't she done so already?”

“I don't know!” Jack says, his arms wheeling in frustration. “Maybe if you would just _ask_ her, instead of _accusing_ her—“

Danielle turns to Sayid and Jack. “I understand why you do not wish to help me—“

“We do want to help you,” Sayid says. “But certain aspects of your story don't hold together, and to be honest, you're less than forthcoming.”

“You ain't in Baghdad anymore, Abu,” Sawyer says, tossing down his cigarette butt. “When the lady's ready, she'll tell you.”

Sayid's shocked expression surprises Hurley, so much that he forgets his irritation over Sawyer littering up the beach. If Hurley had to guess, Sayid looks guilty, and Hurley knows guilt.

Jack appeals to the few onlookers who remain. “Don't you understand what's at stake here? There are other people on this Island, and if what Danielle says is true, they have food and weapons. Communications. Most important, they must have a way off. We can meet them, negotiate with them.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “We could get rescued.”

A few castaways look up from their fires, but no one wanders back to the central clearing where Jack stands. 

Rose speaks up, a rarity at these gatherings. “Maybe some of us don't want to be rescued, Jack.”

A few onlookers nod, and Jack's irritation mounts. “Rose, please...” 

Claire tucks herself under Hurley's arm, rubbing her belly in a way she hasn't for a long time, as if she's trying to massage out painful kinks. These days she says, “if we get rescued,” not “when.”

If it were up to him... He wants her safe and happy. That means rescue, right?

Sayid and Jack go on, Sayid arguing that they need to boost their perimeter defenses and build up the signal fire once more.

Jack points out, “Danielle said that there are military stations of some kind. If this Island is a government facility—”

“Oh, sure, the government.” Sawyer drawls out the words, long and sarcastic. “Well, ain't that reassuring. Might not be ours, Doc. Might be one you really don't wanna tangle with.”

Sayid rests chin on hand, considering. “An excellent point. For that matter, Jack, are you so sure that you even want to engage these people? Look how our first encounter turned out. I for one don't recommend that we repeat the experience.” 

As he says this, Sayid stares straight at Claire. She starts to tremble, and tears well up in her eyes. 

“We might not have a choice, Sayid,” Jack says. “You just want to sit here, wait for them to come—“

“Whereas you want to rush out into the unknown, fight them on their own turf—“ 

Kate charges to Jack's side. “Jack, you know I'll stand behind you. But in this case I think you're wrong.”

Jack's face shuts down into an impassive marble wall. “You do, Kate? You might have personal reasons to stay on this Island, but those don't apply to the rest of us.”

Kate draws back, white and shocked. “Personal reasons? What do you know about my personal reasons?”

Hurley thinks back to Kate's mug shot: the pinched, drawn face, the haunted eyes.

“All I'm asking, Jack,” Sayid says, trying to sound calm and reasonable, “is that we not rush into this. We all have the same strategic goal, which is to be rescued.” He avoids looking at Rose as he speaks. “We may differ as to tactics, but—”

“My strategy is not yours,” Danielle interrupts. “I want to find my child, even if she is grown. Even if she does not know me.”

“I thought you wanted to get rescued, Danielle,” Kate says. “I mean, you did set up a distress call.”

“When our ship got caught in the storm, we weren't the only ones in that region of French Polynesia. The _Bésixdouze_ had become separated from the convoy.”

“What other ships?” Sayid's voice is harsh, urgent. “The French navy, am I correct?”

Danielle sags a bit, as if she has nowhere else to go. “Yes, you are right. I thought we might still be in their vicinity, and that they would hear me. That our sailors would comb the Island and find those who had taken my Alex. But it was not to be.”

Sayid's look says, _I knew it._ “So, Danielle, what was your rank?”

She can't face him. “ _Capitaine de corvette._ We scientists were officers.”

“Well, aye-aye, mon capitan,” Sawyer smirks, giving Danielle a little salute. “At least the Frenchies are on our side, Sayid. Most times.”

“Shut up, Sawyer,” says Kate.

Sawyer chuckles and leans back against the curved metal of the fuselage, waiting to deliver his next salvo.

With a defeated air, Jack hunkers down on a driftwood log. “I don't know about the rest of you,” and here he looks at Kate. “But I have a life to get back to.”

“We all do,” Sayid says in a soothing voice, although Hurley wonders what kind of life awaits Sayid in the USA, given that he was an enemy soldier in a war that's still going on. 

“Your life will still be there in the morning, Jack,” Sayid continues. “Perhaps we can make some plans, with Danielle's help.”

Danielle gives a little nod at his burst of courtesy.

Sayid's good at the persuasion game, but Hurley notices the covetous glance he sends towards Danielle's rifle. Probably more where that came from, and no doubt Sayid thinks so, too.

The thought pitches Hurley into a tailspin. Within the circle of his arm Claire has stopped shaking, although she's switched from belly-rubbing to massaging her lower back. That's all they need, a pile of guns and who knows what else military stuff. Grenades. Howitzers. Just great.

As if Sayid can read Hurley's thoughts, he says to Danielle, “I think it's a fair assumption that the people who took your child are armed as well.” When Sayid sends Claire a cold, appraising glance, it's Hurley's turn to shiver.

Nervous murmurs rise up among the listening people. Old hippie Brian says in a sarcastic voice, “Call someplace Paradise, kiss it goodbye.” 

Claire looks up to Hurley. “So, they're not leaving right away after all?”

Hurley's mute shake of the head is enough for Claire. She pulls Danielle and Shannon to one side, just as Sawyer makes a bee-line for Danielle. “I'm going to boil some land-crab,” Claire tells the two women. “Come have some with us, okay?”

Sawyer's smirk is wide as the horizon. “You beat me to it, Mamacita. I was about to ask the lady to dine myself.” 

Danielle can't quash her smile at his contrived courtly bow.

Shannon wears a smirk of her own. “Watch it, Sawyer. You might fall down a hole so deep, you'll never climb out.”

Self-possession restored, Danielle sounds like she might be strolling down a springtime boulevard in gay Paree. “Perhaps some other time, Sawyer. Tonight I must take, what do you Americans call it? A 'rain check.'” 

Sawyer's still gaping as they leave him standing on the beach.

* * * * * * * *

No one heats their own water now. Instead, two large pots hammered out of fuselage bubble, one filled with fresh water and one with salt. People dip from the fresh one for tea, or for hot water to wash faces or clothes. They take turns cooking their seafood or eggs in the other. 

Night has fallen by the time Claire has filled an airline tray with pieces of boiled land crab. The creatures swarm over every coconut grove, and no one tires of their meat, especially since Kate has found a grove of lemons. Sun has gathered fat garlicky cloves, something like cilantro, and a reddish plant with hot, peppery leaves. Cooking on the Island has become much less of a chore. 

Everyone has settled into their groups. Jack and Kate form their customary duo near the water's edge, surrounded by an aura of peace. Whatever Kate's saying to him with her hand draped lightly on his forearm, it seems to be calming him down. Sawyer has clustered with Sayid and Jin, who roasts a large silvery fish on flat stones. 

Danielle shoves crab meat into her mouth, all delicacy abandoned. After licking her fingers, she fixes Claire in the grey spotlight of her eyes and says, “I see so much of myself in you.”

Everyone around the fire stares at Danielle.

“What do you mean?” Claire sputters out.

“I thought that I would not be alone when my time came, that my Robert would be with me. But then...” Her haunted voice drifts away into the firelight.

“Claire's not gonna be alone.” Hurley folds his arms over his belly, which juts out like an impassable obstacle. 

She hopes Danielle knows better than to argue with him.

“Please, it would be so much easier to say in French. I too thought I was surrounded by those whom I trusted, whom I loved. Then that thing came upon them, that darkness—“

“The thing that lives in the trees,” Claire interrupts.

Danielle's voice wavers like the flickering flames. “If only it had remained in the trees.”

A chill slides down Claire's spine, and the baby kicks in tune with her anxiety.

Frustration explodes from Shannon. “What about your camp? Did it ever come into your camp?”

Danielle tosses bits of crab shell into the fire, where they give off the smell of burning hair. “Never on the sea-coast. It was when we ventured into the jungle that it picked off poor Nadine. Later, when we came to the wall outside the ancient temple...“

Claire and Shannon share the same glance, the same thought. Locke, Boone and Charlie have just set out into the jungle for their walkabout. Out there, with that thing.

Danielle still stares into the fire. “It is a dark place, very dark. You do not want to go there. First the smoke took Montand and then...” Again she drifts away.

Hurley can't contain himself any longer. “Temple? What temple?” he practically shrieks. “Who the hell are these people? Where the hell are we?”

Sayid has heard Hurley's outcry. He breaks away from Sawyer's group and goes over to alert Jack. 

“Uh, oh,” says Shannon.

“Have you told Sayid any of this?” Claire practically hisses at Danielle from sheer panic. Sayid tries to draw away a reluctant Jack, who shakes his head at first. Claire figures that Jack probably thinks Hurley is over-reacting to something. 

“Dude, I think Sayid's already on the case,” Hurley says, calmer now. “He kind of didn't believe your story.”

“That one, he sees into the soul,” Danielle says in a hoarse whisper. “And there are parts of mine I choose to keep from view.”

“I tried that when we first crashed here,” Shannon says. “With Sayid, it doesn't work. I'm serious, Danielle, don't screw with him. Just don't. But if you tell him, I'll protect you.”

It's absurd that this slip of a girl could stop Sayid when he's hell-bent on discovering the truth. Then Claire's practiced eye roves over Shannon's flawless skin, her aquiline nose. Sayid has fallen in love with her, or is just about to, and Claire's pretty sure that Sayid would do anything for a woman whom he loves.

All at once, Sayid stands before them, the firelight from below casting his face into an unrecognizable mask. Behind him stand Jack and Kate, who send questioning looks in every direction.

Hurley uses his most relaxed voice, as if nothing unusual is going on. “Take a load off, dudes,” 

Claire extends the tray. “There's still a fair amount of crab left.”

Sayid squats, and his gimlet eyes zero in on Hurley. “I thought I heard something about a temple.”

It's all going to come out now, and sudden relief washes over Claire, enough to chide Sayid a bit. “You know, Sayid, sometimes people don't tell you things, because they're afraid of how you might react.”

“She has a point,” Shannon adds.

Again shock flickers over his features, but this time he doesn't suppress it. Instead, a weight seems to fall from him, one which Claire recognizes. She's laid so many of her own burdens down: at Hurley's feet, at Kate's, at Rose's, at Jack's, even. Each time she's risen up a little lighter than before, a little more relieved.

“Danielle,” Kate says, “Please tell us what happened. All of it.”

So Danielle does.

* * * * * * * *

After supper, Hurley and Claire sit in their shelter, too full of questions and anxieties to sleep. Claire lifts the tarp-flap corner to reveal the moon-drenched beach, where Jack and Kate are still up, still talking. Danielle has Shannon's tent all to herself, because Shannon sleeps in front of Sayid's fire, curled up with her head on his thigh. He stares out at the ocean, occasionally stroking her hair.

He's calculating, making plans for their trip to find the Others.

Nothing else seems unusual. The same fires burn with the same people clustered around them. Over by Kathy and Shana's tent a woman starts up a folk song, and a few people join in. At the other end of the beach, a boar-hide drum taps out its quiet, relaxing rhythm. Jin and Sun converse in front of their shelter, as private as if they were behind sound-proofed glass, since no one else understands Korean. But Jin's still sleeping on the beach, it looks like, because afterwards Sun doesn't invite him in. He curls up in a bed-roll near his favorite fishing spot on the rocky coast.

The familiar sights and sounds don't quiet the turmoil inside Claire. _She shot them, the three that the dark thing didn't get. She shot them all. Including her baby's father._

Hurley senses her mood. From behind her he asks, “All quiet on the western front?”

Claire doesn't answer at first. Finally she mutters, “I'm not like her.” But perhaps she was. She killed Ethan, didn't she? 

Oh, sweet Hurley, it's as if he can read her thoughts. “Claire, it was like, self-defense. Come on, you heard what Danielle said. Robert shot first. It was only 'cause she broke his gun ahead of time that he didn't kill her.”

“Robert would have killed their baby, too.”

“Yeah, Claire, he would have.”

A cold spear goes through Claire's middle. Years ago, Ethan had offered to kill Danielle if Ben couldn't do it, whoever Ben was. Danielle's words drip through Claire like ice water, _Let me do it, Ben. I can do it if you want me to, Ben._

Who was Ben, and worse yet, was he still on this Island? She runs her hand protectively over her stomach, trying not to sink under waves of fear. 

Hurley must feel the change in her mood. “What's wrong?”

“Just thinking about something Brian said. 'Kiss paradise goodbye.'”

“If this is paradise, paradise kinda sucks.”

She doesn't see it that way. The waters teem with fish, and sometimes when she forages for eggs, tiny gull chicks squawk at her and open their bills, demanding to be fed. Every night, the sunset explodes into a riot of oranges and purples, painting everything with a golden edge. She hasn't ventured much into the jungle, but even the palm groves close to the shore are filled with whispers like song. The white sand, the blue sea, never have colors shone so pure.

The Island is the most beautiful place she has ever seen.

Eventually she finds the words. “If it sucks, it's because people have made it that way. Like the islands Kenneth talked about, covered with garbage.”

“Aw, Claire, I shouldn't of said that.” Pulling her onto his lap, Hurley buries his face in her neck, sending his purring words all through her. “I met you here, didn't I?”

Never has she been so grateful for his warmth, his size, his pliant softness. She lifts curly masses of hair and whispers into his ear, “I met you, too.”

“Listen. You're not gonna be like Danielle, because I'm not Robert. And nobody's gonna steal this baby, either.”

They haven't kissed since that first time a few nights ago, but it's as easy as if they had never stopped. They fall together onto their sides, bellies close, letting their kisses weave a strong, silken fabric which cocoons them in tenderness and desire. 

( _continued_ )


	14. Bamboo and Water

Claire wakes up before Hurley, and in the faint dawn light reaches for her diary-turned-sketchbook. He lies before her shirtless, eyes closed, a sprawling and monumental form. Her pencil flies across the paper in sketchy circles, two small ones for breasts, one great one for belly, a medium one for his sleeping face. So much roundness, each graphite stroke like the caress of a loving hand. 

The night before, both of them sank under the weight of humid air. _So hot_ , she had complained, as one skinny little shirt fell to the blanket, then the other.

 _Could you?_ she had asked, showing him her back. Who would have thought he'd struggle so hard with two tiny hooks? Finally she chuckled and undid the bra herself.

He shed his own shirt like a burden, and together they lay skin to skin throughout the night. Her bare breasts tingle at the memory of his hands, of how her own palms flew over his wide chest. As she draws, she wishes he could sit for her in a proper studio in full light, that her arm could race across the paper in broad strokes, playing over all the flesh of him.

Her pencil squiggles furiously as she tries to capture fluffy corkscrews of hair. Just light lines, one twisting after another, an electric mass which seems to float upwards with buoyant energy. Then, after one long sliding stroke down the curve of his back, she's finished. She knows not to over-work a sketch. Just suggest, like warm breath over skin.

Something's going on in the camp, as voices hum in loud conversation. His skin is like velvet under her palms as she strokes him to wakefulness. He reaches for his t-shirt and grabs her discarded bra by mistake. His blush is so delightful that she could kiss him right there. She pulls on just enough to satisfy decency, while he twists himself into his own shirt before opening the tarp flap.

Jack and Kate stand surrounded by Sayid, Sawyer, and a few others in front of the cooking shelter. Danielle leans nearby, resting on the rifle that's like a third arm, surrounded by a glow that might be a trick of the morning sun. Or not. 

Everyone's helping themselves to boiled jackfruit seeds, boiled up by Rose and an Indonesian student from Sydney University named Sirrah. For weeks people had been cutting out the flesh of the enormous fruits and tossing the seeds. Then, one morning Sirrah quietly placed a bowl of boiled ones on the food-shelter table. Just as we would serve them at home, she had said.

Now Sirrah stands listening with her arms folded, her long black hair tucked in a bun, face serious. Shannon sits back on her haunches, watching Sayid with an intent expression.

“You were telling us about that temple, Sirrah,” Kate says. 

“I'm from Jakarta, and what Danielle described sounds Indonesian. Central Java, maybe. Or Sulawesi.”

Kate turns to Jack. “Maybe that's where we are, somewhere in Indonesia.”

In between bites of jackfruit seed, Hurley puts in, “Yeah, but this is an island.”

Claire says, “Indonesia is made up of thousands of islands. It's not all Bali or Java.”

Sirrah nods, and in her soft voice adds, “Many Indonesian islands are small, with only a few villages. Or none at all, like Membata and Siroktabe.”

Sayid's clearly not convinced. “Indonesia or not, I've been up most of the night thinking this over. Anyone resident on this Island will sooner or later circumnavigate it. When they do, they'll see our signal fire. I see no reason to confront unknown forces from a position of vulnerability.”

His words must encourage Kate, because she adds, “Besides, Jack, you have responsibilities here. What if someone else gets sick, like Shannon did? Or injured? And Claire's going to have a baby.”

Everyone's eyes train on Claire. Normally she hates being the linchpin for other peoples' decisions, but not this time. She doesn't want Jack to leave, either.

“Kate's got a point, Doc,” Sawyer says, squeezing a jackfruit seed out of its hull. “Me and Xena here can pull together a little posse of our own.”

Jack scrutinizes Claire's stomach, then asks in a casual voice, “So, when are you due?”

“What's today, do you know?” 

With a dripping spoon, Rose points to the flat, painted piece of fuselage behind her. “You know where the calendar is.” She updates it daily, writing the large rounded numbers with pieces of burnt charcoal.

Thursday, October 14. They've only been here a little over three weeks. It seems far longer, like one of those epic, adventure-filled dreams which gets squeezed into the extra ten minutes between the snooze alarm and the real one. “October 26,” Claire says, feeling suddenly cold and sweaty.

Full of sympathy, Sirrah says, “Don't worry, Claire. They'll send someone before then, I'm sure.”

Jack's still contemplating. “The rule of thumb is two weeks from the due date in either direction.” His heavy sigh is laced with relief as much as defeat. “Danielle, I'm sorry.”

Her deep, polite nod forgives all. _“Pas de souci._ It is quite all right.”

Sawyer laughs. “You know what that Frog-speak does to me, Sheena.”

Danielle's answering smile is cool and mysterious as a spring hidden in the forest. By morning's end, they've recruited Scott, Steve and surprisingly, Jane, the gruff Englishwoman who won't discuss her midwife sister with Claire.

Sayid spends the morning enlarging his shelter, then drags over Shannon's heavy suitcases and helps her arrange things. The space that she and Boone used to share sits forlorn, awaiting Boone's return.

* * * * * * * *

Sawyer and Danielle haven't been gone an hour when Kathy and Shana descend on his tent, emerging laden with sunscreen, laxatives, vitamins, salves, paracetamol. Even though Jack has taken all the script medications with him to the caves, he grins in agreement.

Claire gets it: Jack wants plausible deniability. Besides, Claire knows by now how Kathy and Shana play the game. When Sawyer gets back ( _not if, never if_ ), any complaints will be met by messy, personal details about their monthlies or other bodily functions.

They do leave Sawyer a reasonable selection for his own use, as well as some for Danielle.

While Rose and Kathy play chemist and dispense over-the-counter supplies to the rest of the camp, Jack, Kate, Hurley and a few others head north to play golf. Jack needs the relaxation, Hurley insists, and Jack doesn't argue. 

Hurley asks Sirrah to fetch him from the golf course if Claire needs anything. Of course she will. Claire can tell that Hurley's been struck by Jack's remark about the “delivery window.”

“I'm fine,” Claire says. “Go have fun.”

With so many people gone, the beach seems quiet, even restful. Claire parks herself under an ironwood tree and starts to re-read her diary, barely recognizing herself in the jagged words. She thinks about tearing the pages out, but that would mean walking over to the nearest fire, and she's finally gotten comfortable. So many angry words, so remote, as if they weren't born in just another country, but another world. Anyway, ripping out pages might spoil the book. 

She's almost finished when Michael staggers past, weighted down by Oceanic Airlines jugs filled with a good ten kilos of water each. Walt drags behind, kicking up arcs of sand with his trainers.

“Cut that out, Walt,” Michael says. “You're gonna hit Claire.”

“No, I'm not.” Walt keeps kicking, seeing how high he can make the sand clumps fly, then whines that he's bored. Vincent has run off again, and why does he always do that? “Can't I go find him, Dad?”

Michael tells him in rough tones, “You've got to make your own fun, Walt. And no, you can't go into the jungle to look for your dog.” 

“Maybe you could go, Dad. Mr. Locke always knew how to find Vincent.” 

“Well, Mr. Locke isn't here, so Vincent's just gonna have to come back on his own.” 

“Whatever.” Walt dashes off towards the shoreline without looking back.

Claire waves her hand. “You want to take a load off?” 

His exhausted face clearly says, _At last, another adult to talk to_. 

A little qualm stabs Claire as she marks her place with a page corner. Is this what being a parent is like, to be so desperate for a few moments away from a child's demands? 

Michael drops the water jugs with a thump, then plunks himself next to Claire and wipes his drenched face. “This water hauling business is getting old.” As he raises his eyes skyward, she does the same. The usual afternoon rain hasn't appeared. “What we need is water down here, at the beach.”

“Too bad it can't walk the route on its own.”

He fixes her with a mischievous glance. Beneath the gruff exterior there's warmth and even a flash of humor. “Oh, but it can.”

“Be serious, now.” 

Grinning, he offers her his own notebook. “Take a look.”

The pages are covered with architectural sketches of bamboo scaffolding. “What's this?”

“It's an aqueduct, like the Romans used. Since the spring at the cave is at a higher gradient than the beach, we won't even have to build a reservoir.” Seeing her blank look, he explains, “You know, since water flows downhill. Voila, guaranteed fresh.”

“That's brilliant, Michael.” He beams at her praise, so she goes on. “Your drawings have nice, tight lines. Good perspective, too.”

It's as if she's handed him a gift. Then his bright smile topples under the weight of doubt. “I guess you must have gone to art school.”

She shakes her head. “I just did a lot of set design and painting. Mostly self-taught.” _Not entirely_ , she reminds herself. A baby wasn't the only thing she got from Thomas, with his MFA in Visual Arts. Sometimes he'd sit for her, gracile as a deer, wispy blond hair shooting upward. He never liked her sketches of him, though, and sneered that they were “too representational.” She had sat for him exactly once, naked and shivering for three hours. The resulting explosion of drips and ragged brush strokes didn't look like a person at all. She never offered again.

Michael fills the silence with, “I taught myself too. So, you draw?”

“Yup. Want to see?” 

He does. She quickly flips past the written parts of her journal, not wanting him to catch a single glimpse of the bitter words. While she may not burn them, she isn't in the mood to share.

As Michael murmurs in approval at the sketches, Claire sees them through his eyes: a gull just taking off in flight, the swirl of a wave around a dark, barnacled rock, the massive spreading tree which presides over the beach like a queen over her court. Finally, Michael flips to a figure sketch of Hurley toasting something over a fire. Pencil lines pass like loving hands over his round body and wild hair.

When Michael gets to her drawing from that morning, he gives her a knowing look. “Hey, not bad.” 

To Claire's relief, Hurley shows up, back from golfing. Walt follows him, Vincent trotting alongside. Walt calls out, “Dad, he came back, just like you said.” 

“Guess he missed you, little man.”

“He needs a bath, too,” Hurley adds. “Whatever he got into out there, it really stinks.”

“Well, that'd be something for you to do, Walt,” Michael says.

After Walt runs off with Vincent, Claire says, “Michael, can Hurley look at your sketches?” 

“Sure.”

Hurley turns the pages sideways one way, then the other, as if unsure about what he's seeing. “Nice drawings, dude. Um, what are they?”

As Michael explains, Hurley breaks into a broad smile. “That would be awesome. Hey, let me help you out with that water.” As he lifts one of the jugs, another idea flickers across his face. “After your aqua-duct, you think we could also, you know, set up a shower?” 

A few people at the beach have talked about it already. They've even salvaged the perfect cylinder from the fuselage for a tank. The biggest obstacle so far has been lack of water.

Michael's eyes light up as his work comes to life before him. “Sure, we could make a solar-heated shower. Everyone would love that.”

* * * * * * * *

The next day, Michael gets more volunteers for the aqueduct than he knows how to organize. Jin is one of the first to step forward, even if he's not exactly clear about what's going on. Hurley guesses that Jin wants something to do that doesn't involve exchanging hard stares with Sun across the beach.

Brian and Kenneth have been making basalt axes with wickedly sharp blades lashed to stout wooden handles. There are plenty of tools to go around, and nobody has to jockey for turns with the airplane ax.

This loud, stocky man named Leslie wants to know why they're wasting time on water-works when they could be building a raft. In a mild voice, Michael tells him that it's a big jungle with plenty of bamboo. In short, go ahead, be his guest.

Leslie pouts and says,“I'm a scientist, not an engineer,” which draws a snicker from Rose.

She says aside to Hurley, “My husband is a DMD, but that doesn't make him a surgeon like Jack. Leslie Arzt is a middle-school science teacher who thinks he's the next Darwin.”

Hurley gives a noncommittal grunt. Rose's faith that her husband is still alive is rock-solid.

“Leslie better watch himself with those spiders he's always collecting,” she goes on. “I got bit by a spider once, and even with anti-venom it was nasty.”

When Rose gets revved up like this, she really reminds Hurley of his mom. It would be fun, in a terrifying way, to stick the two of them in a room together. Maybe when they all get rescued he could arrange that.

* * * * * * * *

Work on the aqueduct moves along quickly. Each morning Michael, Jin, and Hurley lead a troop to the bamboo grove just northwest of the camp. They sing off-key Disney songs which echo through the tree tops, followed by the thud of bamboo hitting the forest floor. The axes slice through the slender trunks like kitchen knives dicing carrots. Even so, they work quickly, because the trees whisper uncanny chants at times. Nobody wants to mess around in the grove any more than they have to.

Hurley hauls bamboo poles until his arms and shoulders ache. Michael has tallied up long columns of numbers, down to the last pole, and there are a lot of them. The crew lays poles along the path to the caves, each cluster labeled with brightly-colored electrical wire from the plane.

Jin still sleeps in a bedroll on the beach, and doesn't fish for his wife. In fact, he doesn't speak to her at all. If they both cast their nets into the sea at the same time, it's on opposite ends of the camp. They look like two small dark figures separated by a long crescent of ocean.

On the day when the bamboo poles have all been cut and sorted, when the laborious process of lashing the scaffolding begins, Jin slips away from the work site and heads towards Sun's garden. 

Hurley tells Michael that he's got to check on something, and follows Jin. Alert for trouble, Brian and Craig come along too.

Jin's hard to keep up with, and by the time the three men make it to the garden, he's already talking to Sun. The three men wait behind a copse of trees, out of sight. 

Sun squats in the taro patch while Jin crouches beside her. His words come out anguished, strangled. At first Sun ignores him, but then she gives him cool, distant answers. 

To Hurley, it feels less like spying because they're speaking in their own language. But he and the guys would be there anyway, even if Sun and Jin were using English.

It's simple. There's a strict rule in camp, that no one gets to use fists to solve their differences. Jack has only used the word “banishment” once. Since then, people divide up what they're fighting over, or just spend a day cooling off at opposite ends of the beach.

Here in Sun's garden, no one is shouting or tussling, even though Jin sheds a few tears. Sun is the one who raises her voice. When she picks up her garden tools, Jin offers to carry them back to camp, and she lets him.

 _This husband-wife stuff is complicated,_ Hurley thinks. Bamboo-lashing is simpler. 

That evening Jin asks Sun to join him by the rocky shore. There, the beach camp watches in amazement as Jin places his gold Rolex on a flat rock. Sun presides as if witnessing a solemn ritual.

Everyone remembers how Jin had beaten Michael over that watch, even though Michael found it abandoned in the jungle. Jin pauses as if deciding something very difficult. Then, as if afraid of changing his mind, he smashes the watch to smithereens with a chunk of basalt. As he sweeps every fragment into a cloth bag, a small smile plays on Sun's lips.

Hurley whispers to Claire, “Man, that's a new Daytona. Jin just threw $15,000 straight into the camp fire. He could of given it to Michael if he didn't want it.”

Claire's voice is equally soft. “Some things have too much psychic residue to give away.”

Hurley doesn't know what that means, but it's clear she thinks it would have been a bad idea.

Kate, Jack, and a few others arrive from the caves. Everyone's laden down with prescription medications, supplies and what little medical equipment there is.

Jack surveys the crowd, already starting to disperse. “What's going on, Hurley?” 

“Nothin' much. Jin just busted up a Rolex.”

Jack turns to Kate, almost laughing. “Never a dull moment around here, is there?”

“No, there isn't.” Rarely has Hurley seen such a beautiful smile on a face not Claire's.

That night Kate moves her shelter right next to Jack's, both of them adjacent to the new medical tent.

* * * * * * * *

Whatever the ritual smashing of the watch means, it seems to solidify Sun and Jin's reunion. Jin moves back into their shelter, starting up a night-time chorus of small but unmistakable noises. 

At first Hurley pretends he doesn't hear, but when Claire starts making a different silly face for each sound, he can't help but play along. The game ends with their bare chests pressed against each other as they plunge into the pool of each others' kisses, diving as deep as they can. 

Over these eight days since the aqueduct work started, he's come to know every furrow of her warm, wet tongue, every curve of her breasts, every crinkle of her nipples, every tiny grooved stretch mark etched into her belly. From the way her mouth roves across his chest, from her stroking hands, he's pretty sure it's the same for her.

Lines of moonlight fall through cracks in the tarp, their silver stripes curving like fingers around her big stomach. He has no idea why some people think that pregnant women aren't beautiful. Or why he's never told her that she's the loveliest girl he's ever seen.

So he does. Her answer is to undo the string of his board shorts, and after that, not even a small atomic bomb going off would distract him.

( _continued_ )


	15. Garden of Earthy Delights

Claire awakens to pale dawn light, not ready to start the day. Instead, still glowing from last night's chaotic collisions of flesh, she wraps herself around Hurley's wide expanse. His endless territory is a land she might finally come home to, claim for her own. 

Face buried in his back, she grows warm at the memory of wanting so well answered. Fingers that were clumsy at first proved themselves oh so patient, so willing to learn, so diligent. Even in pitch dark she could feel his attention fixed on her, his breath alert, his whole body listening to hers until she rocked back and forth with pleasure. 

Afterward, she apologized for not taking him inside her body, worried about the baby, wondering if she was really ready. She hoped he understood. He murmured, No, no worries, it was so awesome, she was so beautiful, even as he pressed against her leg, straining and full. 

All resistance inside her collapsed. She pillowed her head on his belly and learned why plump sides were called “love-handles.” He smelled like sea-water and clean sweat, and tasted even better. When he lay limp and exhausted, she rested on the sweet pillow of his thigh. The last thing she remembered was his whispered, “Oh, Claire, thank you.”

Hurley rolls over and grins like it's Christmas morning, and she's the best present under the tree. “Claire, about last night, I don't want you to think, um, that I. Was just after, you know, one thing.”

Safe and comforting, he fills her arms. “I wasn't after 'one thing,' either.” 

“Didn't think you were.”

Oh, bother, he doesn't understand. “Hurley, it's that, well, you're rich. And I couldn't even pay for my own plane ticket. I've got nothing.” Her hand circles her belly protectively. “Except him. Who, let's face it, is a cuckoo in the nest.”

His whole body shudders as if all of it wants to prove her wrong. In the golden light of dawn he becomes a creature larger than life: one with the radiant mane of a lion, the bulk and strength of a bear, yet every inch a man.

The sun shifts, the golden light pales, and once more he's Hurley, full of concern and love. “You've got me, long as you want. You and the baby both.”

Christmas has come early for her, too.

* * * * * * * *

The day starts, as days always do. A dozen people have massed around Michael to finish the aqueduct. Light as a soap-bubble, Hurley bounds off to join them, mane ruffled by the stiff ocean breeze.

Claire doesn't even notice Kate at her side until Kate says, “You up for helping Sun in the garden?”

They carry basalt-blade hoes with long bamboo handles. As they pass by Sayid's tent, now Shannon's too, Kate rustles the tarp flap. “Hey, sleepy-head.”

Shannon emerges, hair frowzled. “Oh, it's just you two.”

Claire laces an arm in hers. “Come on, Shannon.” Neither Claire nor Kate want Shannon to spend another morning sighing over Sayid's absence. 

Surprisingly, Shannon doesn't protest. “Why the hell not?”

The garden path winds through trees laced together like Gothic arches. A wide-open clearing appears, its neatly-turned red dirt dotted with rows of tiny green specks. One side is edged in banana plants already several feet tall. Well-established clusters of guava and papaya stand on the other. The high, thin trees rustle in the wind, and morning sun fills the glade with gold.

Sun has planted the bananas, but the fruit trees were already there. She picked this place because it was already cultivated. It must have taken years for guava and papaya to grow to that size.

People once lived here long enough for the trees to mature. Long enough to settle in.

Sun crouches on her knees, a pile of long green shoots at her side. “Good morning. You are just in time to plant taro.”

No one wonders anymore how Sun came to know this. When she started her garden, it was the first question Jack asked her. Had she studied horticulture? Worked in a greenhouse?

She had taken her degree in art history. Then she handed him a bamboo shovel so he could help turn over the red earth.

“So, what do we do?” Shannon says.

Taro shoots are easy enough to plant, and if Claire squats deep like a frog, she can manage pretty comfortably. She asks Sun, “How long till the harvest?”

“Seven months,” Sun says. “The bananas will take about a year.”

Shannon draws in a long breath, and Kate looks up, worried. “Do you think we'll be here that long?” 

Sun scoops handfuls of dirt, pats them around the newborn shoot, scoops again. "I plan for the future. It was what my father taught me."

Kate remarks, "He sounds like a wise man."

“He is a monster.”

Sun's words are chilling, even in the bright morning. No one knows what to say at first.

“I cannot live my life ashamed any more,” Sun goes on. “When we first crashed, all of you hated Jin-Soo and so did I.”

Kate starts to say, “I think 'hate' is a little strong,” but her voice trails off.

“It is all right, Kate. You don't have to spare my feelings. But my father made him that way, and I contributed as well. I am willing to admit it.”

“What does he do, your father?” Shannon asks. “Mine was a businessman in New York. Real estate.”

“I don't even know the extent of his companies. He sold the first Korean automobiles in the American market. Australian, too.”

“Paik autos are famous in Oz,” Claire agrees. “You see them everywhere. Couldn't afford one myself.”

“That is his public business. He has another, in the shadows,” and the women know exactly what Sun means. “My father claims that everything he does is for me. For love of me.”

“Love,” Shannon repeats with a snort. “My father couldn't even figure out how to make a goddamn will, so my stepmother got it all. I was left with suitcases full of designer clothes, maxed-out credit cards, and an overdrawn checking account.”

“I am sorry,” Sun says.

They turn to Kate, waiting for some revelation, but she doesn't say anything. 

Hurley has told Claire about Kate's mug shot, so Claire quickly fills the silence. “My dad wouldn't marry my mum. She didn't plan me, I can tell you. Now look at me, following in her footsteps.”

Shannon stops planting, and drops words like bombs into the conversation. “Speaking of planning, let's be honest, ladies. What in the hell are we going to do?”

“Do?” Kate says. “Do about what?”

“You haven't thought about doing it with Jack?” Shannon says.

Kate flushes almost as red as the furrowed earth. “Of course I have. We have.”

Shannon won't let Kate off the hook that easily. “Done it, or thought about it?” 

“Just thought, so far. As for birth control, I've never used it.”

“Never? Really? My God, when I got to Sydney, the first thing my boyfriend did was take me to this clinic, paid cash for a shot." Shannon challenges the others to judge her, but no one does. "They only last three months, so I've got a little while left. Which I'm wasting."

“I don't think I can get pregnant,” Kate says. “Nothing's ever happened.”

Claire almost remarks that Kate is lucky, but the heavy weight of the child inside stops her. Instead she says, “Some of us are fertile as a turtles. I got pregnant on the pill.”

“I know someone that happened to,” Shannon says. “Her boyfriend blamed her.”

Claire grits her teeth against the flicker of anger. “Tell me about it.”

“Do you know this for certain?” Sun asks Kate. “Did you consult with a doctor?”

“I just know.”

“I was told that I could not have children, but it turned out to not be true.”

Kate smiles for the first time in this conversation. “You have something to share, Sun?”

Sun doesn't answer at first. "Not yet."

Silence falls as everyone ponders that, until Claire says, “I wonder what other people are doing. Faith and Craig don't seem to care.” Everyone laughs, because those two are noisy, besides. “And Kathy and Shana, they're not in the market at all.”

Shannon says, “So for you, Claire, it's party time, right?”

This is far harder to talk about than Claire expects. "We're kind of, um, holding back. Because of the baby."

“Stuck on third base, huh? When I was au-pairing in Saint-Tropez, the wife was past her due date. She and her husband practically broke the bed. Her doctor told her it would get labor going, and it did."

Sun's eyes twinkle with mischief. “So, Claire, if you are tired of being pregnant...” 

Heat flows through Claire at the thought of Hurley up inside her, all that flesh under her, how good it would be to welcome him in. "You really think it's okay?"

"You can always ask Jack if you're not sure," Kate remarks.

Before Claire can point out that it won't do much good after the baby comes, everyone falls silent at the crackle of dried leaves underfoot. It's Jack, pushing his way through the screen of bushes which surround the garden.

“Hey,” he says to everyone. Then, to Kate, “There you are. I've been looking for you.”

Her smile breaks radiant like the dawn. “Well, here I am.”

Jack basks in her good regard. “Thought you'd all like to know that Michael's ready to test the aqueduct.” Gazing around the garden, he adds, “Sun, this is remarkable.”

She accepts the praise with quiet equanimity. “It is not much. Just some bananas and taro shoots.”

He chuckles. “Every few years my mother would take a stab at gardening. All my dad would say was, 'Margo, you're watering a dry stick.'”

“I believe it is an art,” Sun says politely.

At the words “watering a dry stick,” everything stops for Claire, as if someone turned off the switch of the world. She's eleven again, spying on Mum and Aunt Lindsey from behind the kitchen door. They thought she was in bed. Her mum spread out a pile of letters on the red-and-white checked oilcloth.

“Good God, Carole, you still have those?” Aunt Lindsey said.

Mum's eyes welled up with tears, the little sister caught out by the big one.

“What was that stupid thing he always used to say, Carole? You might as well take it to heart, because all you're doing is watering a dry stick. One that's never going to bloom.”

Claire and her mum sobbed at the same time. Lindsey called out, “Claire, is that you?”

Running was out of the question. Lindsey marched Claire down the hall to her room, then slammed the door on her. In that sleepless night, Claire turned the ugly phrase over in her mind, seeing a dead tree branch stuck in hard-pan, the dirty water trickling down over it. 

That's what her mother was doing as she waited for Claire's father to come back to them. Watering a dry stick.

Claire stares at Jack as he chatters away. Years ago her father had dared to show his face in the hospital, hovering over her mother's bed. He had the gall to drop by where Claire worked, too, inviting her for coffee as if he was some Pom from Surry Hill slumming in Westside. To convince her to pull the plug on her mum, even though Lindsey was the one whom the doctors talked to, not Claire.

“... Also, Kate, Michael wants to recover the lavatory from the nose of the plane, try out a composting toilet.” Jack wipes sweat from his face. It's getting to the siesta time of day, when it's too hot to work.

“One stall's not much,” Kate remarks. 

“He said it was a prototype. We'll get a crew together soon, head up there. You should come along.”

“Sure, I'd love to.” Kate looks like someone who's just gotten asked to her school's Year 12 ball, and her eyes never leave Jack's face.

Claire can't tear her gaze away from Jack either. What was his last name? Shep-something. 

No, no, no. This can't be. Shephard. Jack's last name is Shephard.

Her birth registration form bore mute testimony to her mum's faith. In stark typeface the name Christian Shephard appeared in the box marked “Father.” Christian, husband of Margo, who was the reason he no longer visited. Until he did. 

Not just after the accident, either. A few nights before the Oceanic flight he had banged on Aunt Lindsey's door, drunkenly bellowing that he wanted to see his daughter. Claire had peered at him through the rear window, his tall lean form barely visible behind a curtain of driving rain. 

Out front, a woman sat in a rain-fogged car with the headlamps on, waiting. Probably another one of his slags. Then Claire hated herself, because that meant her mum had been one, too. No way was Lindsey going to let him in, though. For once, Claire felt a rush of relief at her aunt's harsh sternness. 

The next day, Claire got on that plane, and was gone. Not gone, though. Here. Things like this didn't really happen outside of stories on the telly, did they?

She sits transfixed while Jack rattles on about sanitation, measuring with practiced gaze the sharp cut of his jaw, his deep-set eyes, his face a reflection of her father's. In Jack's words she hears echoes of her father's crisp American diction.

Jack finally finishes. “So, what do you think, Kate?” 

Kate murmurs something approving. Jack must feel Claire's fixed stare, because he clears his throat, confused. She can't stop telling herself that she's gone two bites short of a biscuit, knowing that she hasn't.

“You ready?” Jack says, but Kate has already picked up her hoe and back-pack. Her face says that she would follow him anywhere.

* * * * * * * *

Over by the aqueduct, Michael and Hurley jostle and josh as men do with their mates. Hurley positions a great square of wood into some slats at the very end of the aqueduct, his round shoulders and wide back straining. 

All at once, it isn't enough for Claire to see him only with her hands in the dark. She wants him visible in the sun, hair blown by the wind, bathing in the lagoon freely the way Sawyer or Jack do. He has as much right to the sun and wind as everyone else.

Walt practically jumps from side to side, while Vincent runs about in circles, yapping. The beach camp gathers, charged with expectation.

Beside her, Kate speaks. “Looks like they're almost done.”

Jack breaks into a rare, uncomplicated smile. Once more Claire studies the line of his jaw, the way he tilts his head to one side, trying to place it.

Walt grabs Claire's hand. “Dad said we had to wait for you. Come on, hurry up.”

No one can pull like an energetic ten-year old. Walt drags her over to Hurley's beaming face, Michael's electric smile. 

“Okay, everybody,” Michael says. “Here goes nothing. You want to do the honors, Walt?”

Walt pushes down on a wooden lever, raising the sluice gate. As water slowly trickles into the receiving pool, Michael fills a coconut shell. He hands it to Claire and says, “Go on. For making such a great muse.”

She can feel everyone's eyes on her, but the only ones she's looking into are Hurley's. The water goes down cold and sweet, not tepid like tarp-tasting rainwater. 

Walt refills the coconut shell and hands it brimming to Hurley, who waves it away. “Give it to the architect.”

Michael wipes his mouth. “Gonna be a nuisance, lifting that sluice all the time. We need to put in some kind of tap.”

Hurley pulls Claire close to his side, then empties the contents of his shell over his head. On the same silly impulse she pours water onto her own. In a stroke of boldness, he gives her a very public smack on the lips. The crowd around her, the laughing people, the hum of congratulations to Michael, the smell of fresh, flowing water: all fade under Hurley's smile. 

What started life as a sketch in a notebook has now become solid and real. By its very existence, this great bamboo-lashed structure seems to commit them to a course of action. She's willing to surrender to it, just as Hurley has surrendered to her mouth, to her hand, just as she's surrendered to his promise to look after her and the coming child. 

Even that crabby man with the girl's name, Leslie, looks pleased as he wraps a soaked handkerchief around his neck. “I always knew this would work. Even my ninth-grade class built one.” 

Michael rolls his eyes, so elated that even Leslie can't irk him. 

The cave's spring waters come from deep inside the earth and won't give out for a very long time. As the afternoon winds on, people fill their pots, soak their heads, bathe their necks and hands in coolness. 

Jin doesn't drink, just dunks his head for a few seconds under the stream and comes up dripping, eyes shining. “Water. Good water.”

“You got it,” Michael says. 

Kate splashes Jack, Jack splashes back, and other people get into the act. Even Rose doesn't complain about the waste. They've had six weeks of instruction in the hard school of saving every drop, every scrap, every piece of trash, and those habits die hard. Even so, it's like a party, all that water, and soon everyone is soaked and laughing.

Kate's words are directed towards Michael, but her shining eyes are fixed on Jack. “So, if you want some help with your next projects—“

“That's right,” Jack says. “I haven't forgotten about that shower, either.”

“Neither have I,” Michael answers. “Showers use a lot more water. Sure, we've got it, but it's going to take some design.”

“Save water, shower with a friend,” Brian quotes, long grey hair plastered to his shoulders.

Kate side-angles a glance at Claire, who stifles a giggle. The two of them are thinking the same thing. 

Hurley chuckles. “That dude's like some kinda hippie fortune cookie.”

Everyone has been so busy with the water-fight, no one expects the familiar, twanging voice which rings out from behind.

“Well, lookie here, we go on a bush expedition and y'all turn this place into the Ritz-Carlton.” It's Sawyer, shaggy and streaked with grimy sweat. Beside him, Danielle looks cool and bemused as usual.

Jane drops her back-pack with a thud. At once Kathy and Shana enfold her, the three of them chatting excitedly. 

Hurley scowls, and Claire knows why. When Sayid's group left, only Danielle bore a rifle. Now Sawyer and Sayid both carry one, as well as belts of ammunition.

An unsmiling Sayid scans the camp site, until he catches sight of Shannon. The crowd parts to let her pass. Never has Claire seen a face so naked with longing, eyes welling with tears, her hair red-gold in the waning sun. Oblivious to the crowd, Sayid cradles her in his arms as if he never wants to let her go. 

Jack comes alongside, bursting with unstated questions, but Sayid says only one word, “Tomorrow.” He leads Shannon away, joined hip to hip.

Jack turns to Sawyer, who waves him off. “Big Island out there, Doc. We're bushed.”

It's not lost on Claire that Sawyer heads for his own shelter, while Danielle retreats to Boone's. “What happened?” she says to Jane when Sawyer is out of earshot.

“They had a row, something about how Yank men always put themselves first, that the woman was an afterthought. Most of it was in French. My guess is that someone couldn't hit the sweet spot, if you take my meaning.”

Claire certainly does. Not all Yank men put themselves first. Not at all.

( _continued_ )


	16. Princess in a Tower

Claire stands in the dawn-streaked sea. Waves play around her ankles, and the rhythmic ocean pulls the sand from beneath her feet. She touches her mouth, still sensitive from Hurley's bearded morning kisses. The chafed sensation delights her, as if she carries a little of him on her lips. 

Sayid, Sawyer and Rousseau crouch around a fire, their rifles close by. They take turns dipping from the cooking pot, and the sight of gloppy, purplish porridge turns Claire's stomach.

Jack's chatting with Kate over by the new medical tent. His arm rests on a tent-pole and Kate half-nestles beneath. They both take their time, ignoring Sayid's pointed looks. 

Jack, who may be her brother. ( _Is, you know it's true, is._ ) How the hell is she going to bring this up with him?

Shannon practices dance moves, dipping her lithe body in swan-like gestures, as if Love herself had risen from the sea to play on the shore. Sayid catches sight of her and breaks into a warm smile. He turns serious at once, as if pregnant with important news and ready to deliver.

A wave of nausea sends Claire to her knees, so that she loses her meager breakfast. Afterward, she crouches in the water, rocking and ill. She hasn't been sick like this since early pregnancy. 

Kate's at Claire's side, holding back her hair. “Honey, what's wrong?”

“Everything came up.” 

“Let's go see Jack.”

Jack ushers Claire inside the medical tent. “We're okay here, Kate. Do me a favor, tell Sayid I'll be along shortly.”

Now that Claire's stomach is empty, the queasy butterflies seem to have flown away. She perches on the metal cot as Jack takes her pulse, pulls her lower eyelids down, makes approving noises. He says, “You're drinking enough? Getting enough protein?”

She nods. “What's wrong, do you think?”

His reassuring smile lifts her mood at once. No wonder Kate has fallen for him like a brick dropped from a ten-story building. “Nothing that I can tell. You're going to have your baby very soon, Claire. These symptoms are your body getting ready.”

It gives her new confidence. “Jack? There's, um, something else.”

He's all ears, as if she were the only person in the world. “Shoot.”

In the quiet tent, Claire's resolution quails. “You're busy. They're waiting for you.”

“You're my patient. They can wait.”

Her voice sticks in her throat. “Yesterday, in the garden, some of us got to talking about babies and stuff. Whether or not it was safe to...” She kicks herself inside for acting like a Year Six running into sex ed for the first time. “You know. Make love.”

Jack's smile crinkles the edges of his deep brown eyes. “If I were an OB/Gyn, I'd recommend it, as long as you're willing and interested. And have a considerate partner, which is definitely the case here, I'd say. Just take it slow and easy. Listen to your body.” Jack starts to get up, as if suddenly feeling the pressure of the waiting group. “Now, if that's it—“

If she doesn't seize this moment, she never will. “Your father's name is Christian, right? Christian Shephard?”

The color leaches from his face. His eyes fade to the dull brown of a bird lying dead on the sidewalk. “Yes. Why?”

“Your mum, she's Margo Shephard?”

“Yes, she is. Claire, what's this about?”

Why should mention of his parents hurt him so? It's too late to stop, however. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think we, um, share a dad. Because 'Christian Shepard' is named on my birth registration. He's an American from Los Angeles, married. Look, I get it if you didn't know about Mum and me, that no one told you.” She's reeling now, shaking because he is, too.

“Claire, there are a lot of people in Los Angeles named Christian Shephard.” 

“No doubt,” she says stiffly. “But he came to my house. In Sydney.”

Jack turns ashen. “In Sydney? When?”

She has to count back, mentally. “The Sunday right before the flight. He stomped about, shouting. My aunt finally threw him out.”

Jack's words sound like they're dragged out with hooks. “You didn't speak to him?”

“I was afraid to, Jack. He was thoroughly pissed.”

“Dad always had a temper.”

“No, I mean 'pissed,' as in drunk. He could scarcely stand.”

Jack believes her, it's clear. He takes a long swig from an Oceanic bottle, as if trying to wash the gravel from his throat, the deadness from his expression. “That sounds like him.” 

But why should Jack sound so sad? Is she some kind of massive let-down? 

As Jack lifts his head, his eyes are wet. “I was an only child. Or thought I was.”

“Me, too.”

He takes her hands in his, as tremors travel all the way up his arms. “I never thought, Claire. I never knew.”

She waves her hand over her belly, trying to recover some stability in a world turned topsy-turvy. “I wouldn't blame you for being disappointed.”

“Disappointed? Oh God, no.” At least he's lost that raspy, strangled voice. He pulls her to her feet and looks her full in the face. “This is a lot to process. It does cause a medical ethics dilemma, too.” 

“A what?” Oh, wait, was that was some doctor joke?

The life has returned to his eyes. “There are rules against treating family members, even though doctors do it all the time.” 

“Do they make exceptions for being stranded on a remote Island?”

“I can't imagine an ethics board that would fault me for it.” The laugh in his voice, the crinkle in his expression, show that the old Jack is is back. He studies her face as if hunting for a resemblance, and finds it. “You have his eyes.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

He surprises her with a quick buss on the cheek. “Claire, I hate to go, but Sayid—“

“It's fine. I'm fine.”

Gravity makes his voice deep and rich. “Yes, you are. And you're going to be.”

* * * * * * * *

As soon as Claire's blonde head pops out of the medical tent, Hurley enfolds her, looks her up and down, pats her hair, strokes her face. “Are you okay?”

“Jack says I'm right as rain. Just going to have a baby soon. As if no one could tell.”

The teasing lilt in her voice makes his heart soar. He's about to bring her to Sayid's fire, when Shannon sidles up. “Hey, Claire. Sun's got some tea ready for you.”

Jane, Sun, and a few other women have massed by Kathy and Shana's tent for a convo of their own. Shannon laces her arm in Claire's, and tugs her along. “Come on, Jane's just gotten started. You really want to hear this.”

Claire's eyes are warm, her voice full of promise. “Later.”

Jack has already planted himself next to Kate, and Sayid is clearly glad to begin. “Danielle, would you open your map?” The large drawing is freshly-marked with blue pencil squiggles. “On the first day, Danielle agreed to provision us with rifles from her _matériels_ cache.”

Jack doesn't look pleased at this.

“Not all of us,” Sawyer points out. “Hippie-dippy Jane didn't want one.”

 _Good for her_ , Hurley thinks.

Sayid ignores the interruption. “Jack, we thought you might want to have Jane's. It's in my tent.”

“What about me?” Kate sounds indignant, even hurt. “I've known my way around long guns since I was ten.”

“Ooh, pree- _co_ -cious,” Sawyer quips.

Danielle and Kate both glare icicles at him. “Your empty sidearm,” Danielle says to Kate. “I believe I have some cartridges for it.”

“Thanks, Danielle.” Kate can't resist sending Sawyer a small, triumphant smirk.

Sayid clears his throat for attention. “We headed northwest, following the large river which bisects the Island. That evening we came to the outskirts of a broad valley, where we made camp.”

“Sounds uneventful so far,” Jack says.

“Until Sheena here decided she wanted to go mountain-climbing,” Sawyer grumbles.

Sayid says, “We scouted the easiest approach to the western cliffs we could find—“

“Easy, he says. Easy for you,” says Sawyer.

Kate frowns. “Maybe if you did a little more work around camp you wouldn't get winded so easily.”

Danielle fights down a chuckle. “We came to a plateau at the cliff-top, a splendid view which I had never seen.”

“I thought you'd been all over this Island,” says Jack.

“There are many places I have not wished to visit alone.”

“What about the, you know, smoke thing?” Hurley asks. “The monster. Did it rip up any trees, chase you around?”

“Never,” Sayid said. “More than once I began to wonder if it even existed at all.”

“But?” Hurley says.

“Hold onto your socks, Gordo, if you can reach 'em,” Sawyer says. “He'll get to that part.”

“Oh my God, Sawyer,” Kate says. “Do you think for just one minute you could—“

“Well, I can tell _somebody_ missed me while I was gone.”

Danielle gives a polite cough. “We spent the day exploring the cliff-tops, and I made some adjustments to my map. This spot marked “ _l'endroit les plus dangereux,_ ” where the disasters struck my team—”

“Naturally, that's where we went,” Sawyer says.

“Even a dangerous place is navigable when traveled in company.”

Sayid picks up the thread. “The jungle around the cliffs grew thicker, almost impenetrable. While we didn't encounter the creature, the place was still unsettling. Every skitter, every rustle seemed to presage an ambush. Even at mid-day, the canopy was so thick that we wished for torches.”

The hairs on Hurley's forearms start to prickle, as if he were hearing a ghost story.

Sayid's voice drops lower, and everyone leans in. “It was there that we found the man.”

“The man?” Kate sounds incredulous. “What man?”

“A real wild one,” Sawyer says. “Looked like he'd been out in the jungle for months. Unshaven, hair all shaggy, filthy and stinkin' like a polecat. Funny thing about his clothes, they were nice ones. Torn to rags, though. First thing we asked him, was he on the plane?”

Sayid says, “He laughed like a man who had lost his reason. Sometimes, in my country, men left alone in the desert too long would see things, hallucinate entire cities, converse with strange beings.” A light smile plays over his serious features. “Perhaps such delirium gave rise to legends of the _al-jinn_.”

In a solemn tone Danielle says, “On this Island, legends come to life.”

A strange shiver of half fear, half excitement winds through Hurley. No one else reacts, especially not Jack, who seems impatient to come to the point. “So, if he wasn't on the plane, then who was he?”

“He told an extraordinary story,” Sayid says. “He said his name was Goodwin, Goodwin Stanhope, and he stated that he had quit his job in the most dramatic way possible.”

“Quit his job?” Hurley says. “There are people here with jobs?”

“Better than that,” Sayid answers. “He claimed to work for a man named Ben, Benjamin Linus to be precise.”

“That Benjamin Linus,” Danielle growls.

Sayid goes on, “On the day our plane crashed, this Benjamin person sent Ethan to spy on us. Goodwin was dispatched to the other group of survivors.” 

“Oh, my God,” says Kate. “There are more of us.”

“That's right, Kate,” Sayid says. “Others from the plane have survived. Anyway, Goodwin crossed the Island to their crash site and surveyed them from the jungle, but didn't make contact. Instead, he turned tail and ran.”

“Why the hell would he do that?” Jack says with a frown. “This whole story sounds insane—”

“Ben ain't the nicest boss, Doc,” Sawyer puts in. “Seems like ol' Goodwin got sent on a suicide mission. Somethin' about how he and Ben was in love with the same woman, and it was a race to who was gonna kill Goodwin first, Ben or Goodwin's wife. Matter of fact, Goodwin thought maybe his wife might of put Ben up to it. She was Ben's therapist, seems like.”

Kate looks like she's done with this whole crazy story. “So they have therapists. Right.”

“Brian knew it was too good to be true that this Island would be, you know, deserted,” Hurley remarks.

Sayid continues, “Apparently Ben wanted him dead for loving this woman. Goodwin kept repeating how beautiful she was, golden-haired and blue-eyed, a Rapunzel locked in a tower, and Ben the witch keeping her prisoner.”

“Only Goodwin was a piss-poor prince,” Sawyer remarks.

Witches and towers aside, to Hurley something clearly stinks. “If this Goodwin dude loved this woman so much—“

“Juliet. He said her name was Juliet.” The way Sawyer says it makes it sound like music. It's clear that the story has Sawyer enraptured. 

“But if he loved her so much,” Hurley persists, “why didn't he help her? Why'd he run away?”

“No shit, Santiago, since there are way easier ways to break up with a woman. Or two, as in his case.”

“You would know,” Danielle says with a small, humorless smile.

Sayid clearly wants to proceed. “Goodwin's marital problems aside, it seems that Ben tasked him to pick suitable candidates for 'recruitment,' as he put it, although he clearly meant kidnapping.”

The ugly word drapes the group like a shroud. Suddenly anxious, Hurley darts a glance over to Claire, huddled deep in conversation with Shannon and Sun.

“Goodwin concluded that the tail section survivors looked like a tough lot, and that neither of these women were worth dying for, even though one had been his mistress for three years. Instead, he headed northwest, to the Temple—“

Sawyer cuts Sayid off. “To save his own hide. Seems the Temple's a no-go zone. Even this Ben won't show his face there, so Goodwin figured he'd be safe. Just one problem, though.”

'What problem?” Jack snaps.

“Seems this Temple's like Project Mayhem in _Fight Club_. You got to convince 'em you're bad-ass enough to get in, and Goodwin hadn't managed that yet. It took him three days to get to the Temple from where the tail section crashed. When he got there, the monks or whatever they were just laughed at him. Told him he had to endure three trials, wouldn't tell him what they were. Just not to come back till he survived them. He'd been out in the jungle ever since.”

“I believe he had already withstood two, from his account,” Danielle says. “He claimed to have encountered the smoke creature twice, and lived.”

“Unlike the pilot of our plane,” Kate puts in. “We know that thing can kill you if it wants to.”

“Did you ask this dude what that smoke thing was?” Hurley's practically jumping out of his skin with impatience. This is worse than Twenty Questions, and he sucks at Twenty Questions.

“Multiple times, Hurley,” Sayid says. “He traveled with us for two days, becoming more frenzied, breaking into fragments of song, telling private jokes to himself. I'm afraid at one point Danielle became a bit rough with him.”

Hurley remembers how “rough” Danielle had gotten with Ethan. 

“He tried my patience with his babble of Latin and Hebrew, calling the creature alternately Azazael, or 'God's poison.'”

“Iblis,” Sayid muses. “The foremost _jinni_ , made of dark fire.”

Hurley has seen the Harry Potter movies, and that “he who must not be named” stuff always seemed stupid. Not any more.

“No, Hurley, he did not inform us,” says Sayid. “What he did convey was that Ben holds this woman Juliet and Danielle's child in the same place.”

Hurley tries to keep his voice level, but fails. “Dude, is it lost on everybody how crappy it was to leave this Juliet stuck wherever she is?”

“We know where she is,” Sayid says, matter-of fact. “In a settlement in the central northeast region of the Island called The Barracks. It was extraordinary, Goodwin's compulsion to tell the truth. He had the air of a man who has given up on his own life. Loyalty, honor, nothing mattered to him any longer.”

After this sinks in, Danielle says, “There is one thing I do not understand.”

“Only one?” Jack quips. “Because I understand virtually none of this.”

“Ben did not even change my daughter's name. Why would he use the name I gave her? Why would he call her 'Alex?'”

Kate's soft answer sends a chill up Hurley's spine. “Maybe, Danielle, he knew that she really wasn't his. That someday he'd have to give her back.”

“Perhaps,” Sayid agrees. “But let's not digress. When we reached the gates of the Temple, we let Goodwin go, as decided. Two men emerged, and although we believed ourselves to be hidden, they looked directly at us as if we were out in the open.”

“Hard cases, too,” Sawyer adds. “Made the ruffians in the Florida state pen look like Boy Scouts.”

“So you were in prison.” Kate says it as if that explains a lot.

“Story for later. As it was, they talked to this clown for a few, then let him in. Guess he got what he wanted after all.”

“I wonder what his third trial was,” Kate says.

“We were,” Danielle answers. “He survived _us_.”

“No, he survived you, Xena,” Sawyer says.

Danielle just smiles.

 

* * * * * * * *

The group breaks up to help themselves to leftovers. Hurley's stomach rumbles, but Jack pulls him aside. “What do you think?”

“It sounds crazy...” As soon as Hurley says it, he knows it's anything but. 

“Hurley, did you ever read _Heart of Darkness?_ ”

“Oh, man, one of my favorite Classic Comics.” In Hurley's mind, Ben looms like a six and half foot tall Colonel Kurtz, huge and bald, voice like a Mack truck engine. 

Jack must imagine the same. “There's some kind of warlord here, a dangerous one, and while he's left us alone so far, I don't know how long that's going to last.” Suddenly Jack looks old and tired. He starts to walk away from the group, so Hurley follows him to the medical tent.

Hurley could swear that Jack's about to cry, as if Colonel Kurtz loose on the Island wasn't bad enough. “Dude, what's wrong?” 

“I've got to speak to Claire, but I can't bring myself to.”

Speak to Claire about what? Oh, wait, earlier this morning she and Jack were in the medical tent like forever. “Is something wrong with Claire?”

“She's fine, Hurley. Everything with the baby is fine. But I can't—“ Jack looks away as he cuts off his sentence. “I just found out today that she and I are related. We're half-siblings.”

That's all? That's what has Jack twisted up in knots? Hurley almost wants to laugh with relief, but Jack's solemnity stops him. “Dude, that's awesome. Kind of outta left field, but still awesome.”

“Yes, Hurley, it is. Claire's a great girl. I couldn't ask for a better sister. What I can't bring myself to tell her is that her father... that our father... is dead.”

Jack's not the touchy sort, but that doesn't stop Hurley. He pulls Jack to his chest, and the tiny tremors which move up and down Jack's body show that he's lost the battle with tears. Hurley was so mad at his own dad, and not just the night before he flew to Australia. Now his dad probably thinks he's dead, and all his dad has to remember him by are shouts and ugly words.

It brings tears to Hurley's eyes, too. 

When Jack breaks the hug, Hurley says, “Dude, I'm sorry. I hated my dad—“

“Likewise.”

“But if my dad died, that would mega-suck. So maybe I don't hate him as much as I thought.”

Jack falls into a silent sea of guilt, recriminations, lost opportunities, everything lost. He looks so alone, and Hurley knows loneliness.

Maybe it doesn't have to be that way. “Jack? Listen, I got your back. We'll tell Claire together.”

* * * * * * * *

Not until nightfall does Claire hear the news of her father's death. Jack's earlier, inexplicable sadness makes perfect sense now. She hates the old-fashioned-book notion you're only orphaned if your dad dies, as if mums don't even exist. Still, she feels Jack's loss for the man who gave them life, only to abandon them both.

The worst part was Jack fighting back sobs because he couldn't even find their father's body.

In their tent, in their bed, Hurley tries to tell her how sorry he is about her dad, how he's here for her. She stops his mouth with a kiss so deep that her head spins with desire. She tosses her clothes right and left, not caring where they land. It thrills her to the core how wide his eyes are, how wet his mouth, how when she lifts his hands to her breasts, he grasps hard and won't let go. 

She pulls his hair aside, a little rougher than necessary, and whispers into his ear, “I want you. Right here. Right now.”

Under her hands his flesh shudders, all that flesh, as if he's fighting with himself in one last stand. “You're sure—“ 

“Yes.” _Yes yes yes_ she says inside, never more certain of anything. Her father lay on top of her mother and gave Claire life. Now her father is dead, but she, Claire, is so alive. She plunges her face into Hurley's thick neck, fills her mouth with flesh. Inhaling his salty almond scent, she slips her hands under his arms to squeeze great handfuls of him.

He falls to her side, panting.

She's glad she kept up with dance practice through her sixth month. Even so, she has to twist this way, then that. He has no clue how to make the two of them connect, how to navigate around his own massive body and her pregnant belly. It's all right, though, because each slipping-in and sliding-out inflames him more, and her too.

He pushes, she slips, they miss one way, then the next, but all those pregnancy-loosened joints are good for something, and with a final twist of her hips he slides inside her. It's like getting pieced to the soul. From behind he moans her name, says that he loves her, until his words fade to gasps and tiny cries. 

She doesn't expect to come, twisted at that odd angle. He moves inside her dark and heavy as earth itself, slow as a whale passing through the deep, until he hits something inside her just right. 

The swift surge of pleasure takes her by wild and chaotic surprise. Before she knows it, she's dying in Hurley's arms, covered by his heavy thighs, pressed against him like a body being lowered into soft, pleasure-soaked ground.

He slips wetly out of her. When she flips over, their bellies collide as they did on their first night on this Island. She plasters herself to him heart to heart and shoves his hands onto her pregnant stomach. “This makes him yours, you know. He's both of ours now.”

The sauna-like tent is full of ocean-and-sweat smells as Hurley clings to her. “Both of ours,” he echoes. “For each other. Like us.” 

“For always?”

“For always.”

Believing him feels better than anything in the world. As she drifts down into the red dark, she scarcely understands who or what she is anymore. Whatever she becomes, whatever becomes of her, this is the last night on earth of the Claire she knew, the girl she was. 

( _continued_ )


	17. The Red Tent

When Claire gets up that morning, she jokes that Jack's advice probably won't get labor going after all. Then she steals Hurley's favorite t-shirt, the green one with butter-soft fabric, and heads off to breakfast. 

He figures the shirt looks better on her than him. As he struggles with another one, he reddens at the memory of their flesh exploding into rosy chaos. Guys on the block would brag about making it to home base in one hit. Hurley wouldn't blab like that, but on the other hand, there are few secrets in this camp.

As he makes his way to breakfast, he swears he sees a few grins and knowing nods. At the food tent, Claire sips from a steaming cup while morning breezes make the oversized shirt flutter about her knees. It seems forever ago that he worried about her second-guessing him, or that she might be revolted by his desire and her own. Or that she might simply change her mind. 

The worry's gone now. He draws her into a hug and kisses the top of her head, astonished at how easy it is to make the simple, casual gesture.

Claire nestles against his side. “Careful, love, it's hot.”

He sniffs the fragrant brown liquid. “What's that?”

“Sun found some wild raspberry bushes. I don't know how she does it.”

Sun is about to speak when Jin says, “No fruit yet. But good tea.”

“Hey, dude, excellent English,” says Hurley. Since Sun has taken Jin back, the rest of the beach camp accepts him too. Everyone speaks English to him now, and Sun only uses Korean to get his attention fast. For once, those late-night TV infomercials didn't lie. The immersion method really does work.

“The fruits are not yet ripe,” Sun says. “In a month or so we will have a bounty.”

Over Claire's head, Hurley spies Kate pulling aside the flap of Jack's tent. She squints in the morning sunlight, her hair all tousled about her shoulders. Jack emerges after her, shirtless. 

_So Claire and I weren't the only ones taking it to another level last night._ A weird certainty shoots through Hurley that things are going to change, and soon.

Suddenly Claire drops her cup onto the sand. At first Hurley thinks that it's tea which stains Claire's shirt hem. Not tea, though. The river which flows down her legs and puddles in the sand is rainwater-clear. 

She sends Hurley a single panicked look, then scans the beach wildly. “Jack! Jack!”

Jack dashes up, kicking sand, while Kate gives Hurley's arm a hard yank. “What happened?”

Movie scenes flash through Hurley's mind: women crying out in agony as taxi-cabs rush them to the hospital and background music pounds like a heart-attack. 

Jack says to Claire in a calm voice, “Looks like your water just broke.”

Kate smiles as Sun relays something to Jin in Korean. No one else but Hurley catches the tiny sparks of panic which flicker around Jack, despite his chill demeanor. 

Claire clutches her belly, then gives a gasp which ratchets up to a small shriek. Hurley's brain is shrieking inside, too, because Jack stands still as a deer in the headlights of a truck barreling down at eighty miles an hour. 

Kate takes the situation in hand. “Come on, honey, let's go someplace quiet.” 

This wakes Jack up, and he waves towards the infirmary tent. “I'll be along in a minute.” 

Shannon and Sun tag along behind Kate and Claire. Hurley wants to follow too, but Jack steers him to a shaded copse of ironwood trees. “You still have my watch?”

Hurley rummages through his cargo pockets, but it must be in the tent. What if he's lost it? He could buy Jack a replacement ten times as nice if they ever get back to civilization. That doesn't do a damn bit of good for right now, though. “I'll go get it.”

Jack grips Hurley's shoulder as if he needs the stability. “What the hell am I thinking? I've got nothing for a delivery here. No monitors, not even a stethoscope. The alcohol's all gone, as well as the peroxide. I don't even have a scalpel.”

A scalpel? For what? Oh, sweet Mary, no. “Jack, listen. Women have babies all the time. My second cousin Juana, she had hers in the car on the 405. The firemen just stood around and waited till she was done.”

“No firemen here, Hurley. At least I'm up on my CPR.” Jack gives a heavy sigh. “Come on, let's check her out.”

Now it's Hurley who stays planted. “Jack, this have anything to do with, you know, Claire being your sister? Like, you'd be delivering your own nephew?” Hurley doesn't get why that would freak Jack out, but he figures doctors have weird rules, so who knows.

Jack's about to say something when a sharp cry rings across the beach.

The new medical tent is twice the size of the old one, but it's full of women and there's barely room to maneuver. Its bright orange and red beach towel walls flutter in the breeze. Jack maneuvers past Rose and Faith, while Hurley hangs outside, unsure. Claire stands flanked by Kate and Shannon, then screws up her face as if deeply concentrating.

“Don't hold your breath, honey,” Kate says. “It's nowhere near time for that.”

“Painful contractions?” Jack asks.

Claire nods, her face still twisted.

“In and out,” Kate says. “Count to five.”

“The baby needs you to breathe,” Rose adds.

Jack takes Claire's wrist, measuring. “Pulse is good. How long between, about?”

“She's had two since we got here,” Kate says.

 _Holy crap,_ Hurley thinks. He and Jack hadn't talked for more than ten minutes, tops. 

“Maybe we should give Claire some room—” Jack starts to say.

She interrupts, loud and intense. “No! Nobody leaves!”

“Are you going to examine her or something?” says Shannon.

Claire gives a little whimper and shakes her head, _No, no, no._

At first Hurley doesn't get it. Then Jack says, “In the hospital, I would. But here—“

Someone brushes Hurley from behind. It's Danielle, cool and composed as usual. He tries to let her pass, but she hangs back as if the scene brings back too many memories. She says to Jack, “Do not make her lie down. If I had done so, my Alex would have died.”

Luckily Claire doesn't hear that, as she's too busy having another contraction.

Jack and Hurley both escort Danielle away from the medical tent, and Jack's eyes are blazing. “What the hell do you think you're doing? Do you want to scare her to death?”

She lifts her chin and meets him full-face. “My Alex came out feet-first. _Une présentation du siège._ ”

Jack fights down a shriek. “Breech? Your baby was breech?”

“I felt her tiny feet at _l'ouverture vaginale_ , squatted against a tree, and pushed for dear life. The rest of her soon followed.”

Jack's white face tells Hurley how really bad-ass Danielle is. When Jack recovers his power of speech, he says, “That gives you one hundred percent more experience than every OB/Gyn at St. Sebastian's, because I don't think a single one has delivered a vaginal breech. Believe me, I would have heard about it.”

From inside the tent, Claire's cries blend with the women's soft, reassuring voices.

Sawyer ambles up, rifle slung over his shoulder, and gives Danielle a faux hat-tip. “Mornin', all. Sounds like we got a woman in childbed here.” As Danielle whirls to go, he says, “Where you off to, Sheena? You don't have to leave on my account.”

Danielle sends Sawyer a cool expression. “Off to hunt. For everyday, fish is fine. When it is over, though, Claire will need iron. _Bouillon d'os, restoratifs..._ ” When Sawyer doesn't say anything, she adds, “You are welcome to join me. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

“Well, alrighty then.” 

When they pass out of earshot, Jack says, “What the hell happened with those two, do you think?” When Hurley just shrugs, he goes on, “I've got an idea. Let's grab some dried sea urchins, a couple of irons, and drive those little bastards into the ocean.”

“Yeah, I could use the practice.” That's sort of a joke, because even after a decade's worth of tee shots, Jack would still kick his ass at golf. 

Jack tells Kate where they're going, and her “Good idea” sounds like a dismissal. Old TV images of fathers banished to waiting rooms to smoke cigars appear in Hurley's mind. No cigars on this Island, though. Not that he would light one up anyway.

As Hurley and Jack head towards the shoreline, Hurley swallows his shyness, even though he knows Jack won't take this wrong. He just doesn't want to be the guy with the blabby mouth. “I think this must be my fault.”

Jack chuckles. “Pretty difficult, considering Claire was almost eight months pregnant when you met her.”

“No, not that. You know, um, getting labor started. Doctor's advice, remember?” 

Now Jack does laugh, and the whole beach seems to brighten. “I know what you mean. It changes everything, doesn't it?”

Did Hurley just hear that right? “So, uh, you and Kate?”

The whirr of Jack's #2 iron and the ping of the sea urchin aren't a denial, not by a long shot. The small purple sphere travels so far that its plop is lost in the crash of waves. “Awesome,” Hurley says, and means it. On both accounts.

* * * * * * * *

Inside the medical tent, Claire hears most of Jack and Hurley's conversation. Then crashing waves of pain smash her with such force that she can barely resurface. From far away Kate repeats, “Breathe, Claire, breathe.” Shannon dabs her forehead with a wet cloth. When Rose puts a cup to her lips, Claire slurps with greedy thirst.

Sometimes the pain leaves little islands of refuge. Those moments grow rarer, though. Down in the depths of a pain-filled sea, something has its eye on her, wants to drag her down with sharp jaws and bite her in half.

She could die. In the outback women did, back in the days when travel times between stations were counted in days or even weeks. Even in Sydney today, although it was rare, according to Aunt Lindsey.

_I could die._

She starts to sniffle, because that would mean her baby would die, too. It's terrifying and unfair. That rat bastard Thomas put this baby in her, but she's the one who had planned to go through all this for nothing, just to give him up.

When the next contraction pulls her down, she yells, “I deserve this, it's my fault.” Or if she does live after all, the baby will die instead. “To punish me,” she chokes out, and now she's crying in earnest, great fat tears of self-pity and guilt.

She doesn't even know who's with her anymore. The woman who's praying must be Rose. Arms support her as she crouches, squats, stands, sits, then stands again. She paces like an animal whose body is twisted in every direction by slowly-turning bands of iron.

Claire pisses herself, but doesn't care. Shannon throws handfuls of fresh sand over the mess as Claire crests on the next blinding wave. She whimpers to Kate, “I'm going to die, aren't I?”

Kate's face answers with pure murder. Her rage isn't directed at Claire, but toward the unseen enemy that Kate is going to fight, no matter what. As Claire collapses into Kate's arms, Kate says, “I won't let you die, and Jack won't, either.”

Claire makes Kate's strength her own. One moment passes without pain, then another, a sweet span of relief. It's like there's no pain in the world anywhere. “I have to lie down,” she says, as Rose and Shannon lower her to the cot. 

Kate's frowning, though. Thinking Claire can't hear her, Kate whispers to Sun, “If she were a horse, I'd be worried about now.”

“We should get Jack.” Sun's trying to keep the tension out of her voice, but Claire's jyper-sharp senses pick up on everything nearby. 

Faith speaks up in her soft drawl. “My mother's an old hippie, had me out on a farm in the backwoods of Tennessee. She said sometimes women rest awhile in between acts.”

“Like an intermission,” says Shannon.

“I will speak with Jack anyway,” Sun says.

Sun has barely left the tent when another pain smacks Claire, different from the others. This one squeezes hard enough to break her in half, and for the first time she lets out a genuine scream. She scrabbles off the cot and collapses into a squat, clutching her stomach and crying out.

Kate's bending down, stroking her face, holding her chin, trying to get her attention. “Honey, remember, breathe. Breathe the baby out.”

“I can't I can't I can't,” Claire says, with almost no break now between the pains. 

“Yes, you can. I know you can do this. You can have this baby.”

“No, no, no, it won't come out, this is forever, it'll never stop, I know it—“

“Claire.” 

She knows that voice. It fills the tent as much as he fills the doorway. His face is free of every scrap of fear. 

“Hurley. Oh, God, Hurley.”

He lifts her from the squat. Supported by his arms, she half-stands with her chin resting on the shelf of his belly. They waltz like that back and forth, how the hell long she has no idea, because time has vanished. Jack floats into her view, talking to Kate, and she doesn't smell any fear on him, so she lets him fade out.

All at once, Claire has to take what feels like the biggest dump in the world, and she doesn't want Hurley to see or smell it. There's no way she'll make ten steps to the edge of the woods, much less the latrine, though. She whimpers, “Hurley, I can't hold it.”

Kate grabs the pan for that purpose and steers Hurley to the cot. He lands with a plop, and Claire falls in front of him, head still pressed into his belly. 

Kate lifts Claire's skirt, leaving her bottom bare. 

“Woo, hoo, all the bad girls go commando,” Shannon says.

On another world, one not shot through with pain, Claire might have laughed.

“Okay, Claire.” As an afterthought, Kate says, “Jack, did you want to—“

“You're doing fine, Kate.”

“What about me?” Claire's words barely come out, still muffled in Hurley's belly.

“You're doing fantastic,” says Jack.

“Yeah, Claire,” Faith says. “You're gonna show Sun and me how to do it.”

Claire has just enough brains left to wonder at that, until an unbelievable urge takes hold of her. It's like no other normal function she's ever had, and whatever she's pushing out burns like fire. One earthquake goes through her, then another, as she gulps long drafts of air in between. 

Hurley's still holding her. She raises her eyes to him, and his strength pours into her. 

“Nice and slow, Kate,” Jack says. “Right there, that's right. Use some pressure.”

Everyone falls silent. Nobody has to yell, “Push!” because Claire's body gives in to each flash of fire, followed by sudden relief, only to burn again. Her eyes never leave Hurley's, not until one final contraction that she swears will tear her apart. All the breath leaves her body in a long, deep cry. Then something warm and wet slithers between her legs, followed by a gush of fluid. 

Kate's voice is full of wonder. “Oh, my God.”

Claire tries to heave herself off Hurley's lap, but can't. “I want to see. Let me see.” As Hurley flips her over, the long cord slaps against her legs. 

Kate holds a wet child dotted with a few flecks of blood, the thick blue cord still pulsing.

The baby is larded with fat rolls and conspicuously male. All at once, the most wonderful thing happens as he turns from bluish to pink, right before Claire's eyes. He blooms like a rose with his first breath, then fills his lungs again and again, letting out one shrill cry after another.

Claire sags like a balloon with the air let out, so Hurley eases her back onto the cot. The surrounding women coo and flutter like doves in the cote, smiling at Claire, murmuring how brave she was, how beautiful he is.

Kate says, “Come on, honey, let's get him on the breast.”

Hurley crouches on the floor by Claire's side, stroking her hair and whispering, “You were awesome.”

The baby roots around on her breast. “Was there a lot of blood?” Claire asks Hurley.

“I dunno. Wasn't looking at the business end.”

When she laughs, her belly seizes in a sharp contraction. It's not so bad as labor, but enough to make her gasp. 

Jack stands before her. “Okay, Claire, now I do need to take a look.” His voice rings with authority, so she parts her knees. Something squelches out of her, and the flood makes her head spin.

“Keep that baby nursing,” Jack says in that same no-argument tone. “Hurley, start pinching Claire's other nipple, and keep going until I say to stop.”

Claire's too exhausted to fight the rising panic. “What's wrong? What's going on?”

“You're fine,” says Jack. “I just want to make sure you stay that way. Hurley, please. Now's not the time to be shy.”

The baby finally figures out what her nipple is for, and slides it all the way into his eager little mouth. Jack is pressing into her floppy stomach with both fists, hard. He keeps squeezing and pushing almost to her backbone while Hurley pulls on the nipple not occupied by the baby. 

When the flow between her legs slows down, Jack sits back, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Okay, Hurley, you can quit.”

Claire clings to Hurley's arm, because the last thing she wants is to be left alone with her baby in the medical tent. “Don't make him leave.” 

“I'm staying,” Hurley says, as stubborn as Jack.

Claire looks the baby over carefully, even though Jack's already done that. When the infant fusses a little, she puts him back on her breast, amazed at how strong he is, at how he knows exactly what to do. Through the hanging towels she can hear Kate and Jack's muted conversation.

“What was that with the fist massage?” Kate says.

“Everybody talks about the first two stages of labor, not the third. Massage makes the uterus clamp down.”

“Right.”

“If she were in the hospital, she'd just get a shot of pitocin.”

“Does she need one?” says Kate, worry in her tone.

“I don't think so,” Jack replies. “Her blood loss was good for a birth. But we need to watch her closely over the next seventy-two hours...” Their voices trails off, probably because they're walking away. 

Claire closes her eyes, too full of well-being to make Jack's worries her own. When she wakes up, the baby sleeps cuddled at her side. Hurley's gone, but she's not alone, because Sun and Faith sit in the corner, watching. Early evening sunlight fills the medical tent with orange-red light. 

“I brought you some tea,” says Sun.

“Diapers, too,” Faith adds.

The baby stirs a little as Claire ties one onto him, then settles back into sleep. Sun's tea goes down like liquid gold. “What's in this?”

Sun smiles, proud of her craft. “Nettle, raspberry, lemon, boiled sugar-cane, and a dash of sea water.”

“Electrolytes, right.”

“Jack has left instructions. For the next three days, you are to always have someone with you.”

“Why? I feel fine. I mean, for just having had a baby.”

“Claire, if you were in the hospital, nurses would watch you. There are none here, but we will all help you rest.”

Faith's earlier remarks come back to Claire. “You're pregnant, aren't you? Both of you.”

“I am not sure,” Sun answers. “But I suspect.”

Faith laughs. “I don't suspect, I know. By my calendar, I caught the first week after the crash.”

Craig and Faith, holding hands in the wreckage, sneaking off to the forest's edge at night. Claire remembers her grandmother telling her that after the London Blitz, there was a rash of babies. Danger didn't make people careful; it led them to cast caution to the wind.

 _Like me,_ she thinks.

Faith has also brought taro porridge. Claire devours it, all the while staring at her beautiful son, pearly and glowing in sleep. 

“Have you thought of a name?” Sun says.

Before Claire can answer, Hurley sticks his head into the tent. “Hey, you're awake. Danielle and Sawyer just got back from hunting.” 

“They catch anything?” Faith says.

“A boar, and a whole lot else.” Hurley frowns, as if he's not sure of this new development.

“I want to get up anyway,” Claire says. 

Hurley helps her wrap the child in an Oceanic Airlines blanket. “So, what are you going to call him?” 

She says the first name which pops into her mind. “Aaron. His name is Aaron.”

“Cool,” Hurley says.

Claire leaves the medical tent, infant in arms. In the center of camp, Locke and Boone struggle as they get ready to gut an enormous black-haired boar. Sawyer guards a lanky man in khaki overalls, who sits cross-legged on the ground before him. Even though Sawyer isn't holding the man at bay, it's clear the man isn't going anywhere. Setting sunlight glints off Sawyer's rifle.

“Like I said,” Hurley deadpans. “They sure caught a lot.”

( _continued_ )

**(A/N: The chapter title is a hat-tip to Anita Diamant's 1997 novel, _The Red Tent._ )**


	18. Painted Faces and Long Hair

Morning buzz fills the beach camp as people gather around the smoking pit filled with boar meat. Locke has dug the baked pig out of the _imu_ , and he and Hurley hand out portions one after another.

Claire nestles in her first-class seat with an Oceanic water bottle in one hand, the baby on her lap. He's squirming, awake, and when she changes his diaper, she lets him pee into the sand. He smells milky and almost sweet, staring at something over her shoulder with unfocused blue eyes.

Kate brings her some slices of charred boar liver, its pink insides oozing a little blood, and neither of them speak until they're licking their fingers. “So I guess you heard,” Kate says.

“Sounds like they found one of Danielle's military stations.”

“Behind a door, hidden by vines. They banged on it until someone opened up.”

“That new man over there, I take it.”

“Right, Desmond. After Boone and Charlie lured him out, Locke got the drop on him.” 

“Kind of aggro, wouldn't you say?” Only now does it dawn on Claire that someone's missing. “Where's Charlie, by the way?”

“Still holed up in that bunker, and I don't blame him. I hear they have a shower.”

Each knows what the other is thinking. Sun has helped Claire sponge off after the birth, as well as giving the baby an impromptu bath in a cooking pot, but nothing comes close to a cascade of hot water. “I'm going up there with Jack, to check things out,” says Kate.

Across the camp, Jack stands deep in conversation with Locke, whose painted face glimmers in the morning sunlight. Black and white tiger stripes wrap around his hairless head, and dark eye-rings make his expression unreadable.

“What's with the make-up?” Claire asks.

Kate rolls her eyes. “Some kind of boy-bonding thing.”

“Team colors, I suppose.”

“I can tell that Jack's worried.” Kate's words seem to sum up everything. Boone has evicted Danielle from the tent he and Shannon used to share, and he now squats before it with a rifle slung over his shoulder, his long hair blowing in the morning breeze. Two white stripes are scrawled across his cheekbones, and another drapes down his nose, lifeguard-style. He gazes out over the beach as if a bad smell rises from it.

“All these guns. I'm worried, too.”

Kate shrugs, as if the weapons are a trifle. “Locke didn't want anyone to know about the bunker at first.”

“Why all the secrecy?”

“I don't know. We already knew this Island was inhabited, and from what Danielle said, there's some kind of military angle.”

They fall silent when Jack, Rose, and Hurley approach. Hurley's big shadow blocks out most of the morning sun, and worry hangs over him like a cloud. “How's the little guy doing?” he says to Claire.

The baby sleeps, a pink pearl nestled in an oyster-white blanket. “Out like a light.”

Hurley's wearing a back-pack, which means he's going on this trek, too. A small hollow opens inside Claire, not quite fear, but if fed and watered by circumstance could grow into it. 

“Awesome,” Hurley says, but the smile in his voice doesn't reach his somber face. 

“What a precious angel,” says Rose. “May I?”

Baby secure in Rose's arms, Jack takes Claire's pulse. “How's the bleeding?”

“Lighter than a period, I'd say.”

Jack's doctor-poker-face cracks. “You sure?”

A little laugh pops out of Claire before she can stifle it. “I think I'd know.”

Scratching his head, Jack says, “This is highly unusual for postpartum.”

“I'm not surprised at all,” says Rose. A whole long story is written on her face, even if she's keeping it to herself at the moment. “Hurley, don't just stand there gaping, give the girl a good-bye kiss.” 

He draws Claire into his arms and holds her there as if he never wants to let go, but when Jack gives a small impatient cough, he does.

“Come on, honey,” Rose says to Claire as the group departs. “Faith's a whiz with that sewing kit. She whipped up a little something for you, to make things easier with the baby.” 

Even so, Claire can't take her eyes off Hurley's wide, sad back, as he brings up the rear after Jack, Kate, Locke and Sayid, with Desmond in the middle. She watches his slumped shoulders and downcast head until he disappears into the jungle gloom.

* * * * * * * *

The path to the Swan Station isn't as well-worn as the one to the caves. Hurley stumbles over roots in his struggle to keep up, and twisty vines keep tangling themselves in his hair. The troop plunges through the forest in silence behind Locke, who slashes branches aside with a machete.

The Swan door stands bare, all its concealing vines chopped away. Vegetation lies brown and dried on the jungle floor, and Locke kicks it carelessly aside. He raps out a code on the metal door, one too complex for Hurley to follow. Everyone waits in silence as birds wheel overhead, cawing in outrage.

The intolerable sense of bad mojo doesn't seem to afflict anyone else besides Hurley. Desmond shuffles to and fro, still bearing the look of a prisoner even though no one's holding a gun on him. 

Finally the door swings open. “Ding, dong, Avon calling,” Charlie says through an impish grin. Unlike Locke and Boone, he's wiped off most of his war-paint. “Was wondering when you blokes were going to show.”

Before anyone has a chance to say, “Hey, how you doing?” Charlie pushes past them. “Ah, fresh air, sunshine, and lovely sand fleas, here I come. It's all yours.” He practically scampers off into the bush, as if being let out of a cage.

“That's not a ringing endorsement,” Hurley mutters, but no one pays attention to him. As they go single-file down a steep ramp, he can't shake the creeping sensation of someone, or something padding up behind them on stealthy Gollum feet. 

Locke leads them down a damp-smelling stairwell, to the tune of a mechanical throb like a low-pitched motor, while the smell of unwashed socks wafts upward. Wherever they're going isn't too well-ventilated. Light bulbs flicker behind small wire cages, and eventually the dirty-sock smell fades under the wheeze of a struggling air conditioner. 

What the hell, an airlock door? These Dharma dudes must have been expecting a long underground stay, just like in _Blast From the Past_. Hurley musings end, though, when an incredible sight opens up before him. He's staring at the den he always wanted, complete with ping pong table, minus the little detail of no windows and that faintly moldy smell. 

Dishes lie scattered amid open boxes of cereal and canned food. Jack, Sayid, and Kate fan out, incredulous expressions on their faces. Desmond darts to a cabinet and pulls out a white-labeled bottle of wine, unscrews it, and drinks like he's in the middle of the Sahara.

Sayid doesn't mince words with Locke. "Are there any radios here?"

“None that I know of.”

Desmond wipes his mouth and says, “Brother, you think if there was a radio, I'd have stayed in this hole for three years?”

Kate opens the refrigerator and peers inside. “Jack, you might want to take a look at this.”

Jack picks up a small bottle of serum and reads aloud, “RX-1 GND. This looks like a lot number, CR 4-81516-23 42.”

Maybe it's the smell of garbage and unwashed clothes which suddenly nauseates Hurley, or maybe he actually heard Jack correctly. “What? What was that?”

Jack gives Hurley a puzzled glance, then repeats the sequence. “That mean anything to you, Desmond?”

"It's a vaccine against infection." Desmond sounds sullen, defeated, and already a little drunk.

"There is no infection,” Sayid snaps. “Danielle has spouted the same nonsense. No one has been sick since we arrived, even with drinking unboiled water, and using primitive sanitation."

“Aye, mate, I found that out the hard way, didn't I? Injected myself with that stuff every nine days for three years, then decided it wasn't worth it on the day when—“ He stops abruptly and takes another pull from the wine bottle.

Merlot, it looks like. Hurley's almost tempted to wrest the bottle from Desmond and guzzle the rest himself.

“Do you want to know what I think, Desmond?” Sayid says. “Jack can bear me out, or dismiss it out of hand. I think this was a drug for eliciting compliance. Your fellow denizen, the man whom you say left. Did he stop taking his injections beforehand?”

Desmond gives a mute, dispirited nod.

Encouraged, Sayid goes on. “And I suppose you did the same, after his disappearance. How did you feel, by the way?”

“Like I was wondering what the hell I'd been doing down here all this time. It was like a fog lifted, brother.”

Point made, Sayid opens a cabinet. “If you will excuse me, Desmond, I'm afraid I have to go through your things.” Without waiting for an answer, he opens drawers, taps on walls, unscrews light bulbs.

“What do you think he's looking for?” Kate asks Hurley.

They don't have long to wonder. “What's this?” Sayid barks, all the silk in his voice vanished. Behind a ceiling light cover there blinks the red light of a closed-circuit camera, positioned to take in most of the living area. 

“What the hell?” Kate says. 

With nimble fingers, Sayid locates the camera's power cord and slices it with his knife. “That should take care of the video and audio both.” With the fluid power of a cat on the prowl, he sheathes his blade and advances on Desmond. Hurley has never seen Sayid really angry, and he doesn't want to.

“Sayid, take it easy—“ Jack begins, but Sayid knocks the bottle out of Desmond's hand, and it smashes to the floor. He throttles Desmond in a choke hold until Jack, Hurley, and Kate pull him off.

Desmond gasps for breath. “I swear, brother, I didn't know that was there.”

Jack says, “Who's watching on the other end?”

“No bloody idea,” Desmond mutters, rubbing his throat.

Hurley says, “What are they gonna do, now that they know we know they're watching?”

“Sayid, Hurley has a point,” says Jack.

“I for one am tired of waiting for these Others to make the next move. We have thrown down the gauntlet. Let's see if they pick it up.”

Whatever a gauntlet is, the Others are likely to break heads with it, and Hurley doesn't want his to be the first. Amid the broken glass, wine spreads like blood across the concrete floor. Hurley picks up a broom and begins to sweep.

“I'll help you, brother,” Desmond says.

Sayid has other ideas. He grabs Desmond's arm, his grip hard as his voice. “Hurley can get that. You and I are going to take a little walk through the rest of this facility, and we're going to find all the cameras. Perhaps you have some wire clippers, so I don't dull the edge of my knife.”

As Desmond fishes a pair out of a drawer, Kate says in panic, “Where's Locke?”

He's slipped off and is nowhere to be seen. Jack says, “Okay, Sayid, take Hurley and Desmond and look for cameras. Kate, you and I are going to—“

A shrill buzz splits the air with a loud shriek, interrupting Jack. The noise is impossible to ignore, and everyone except Desmond looks about wildly for the source. “Through that door,” Desmond says in a bored voice.

Hurley sets down the broom and follows everyone into the next room. On a freakiness level of one to ten, Desmond's basement den was maybe a five, but this one's a solid nine. Someone cut the Epcot Center geodesic dome in half and filled it with ancient space-age computers. In the background, reel-to-reel tape drives whirr and lights blink.

Locke sits at an Army surplus desk in front of an antique monitor, oblivious to the alarm, and types away with two fingers, struggling to enter the code taped to the monitor screen. When he makes a mistake he swears a little, then gets it right. The alarm stops, and a mechanical counter above his head flutters to the number 108.

“Sorry,” Locke says, looking up. “Duty called.”

Kate wails in pure frustration, “Does anyone have the slightest idea what's going on here?” 

Even if Hurley knew, he couldn't answer her, transfixed as he is by the sequence of numbers which Locke has just typed in. 

Locke mistakes Hurley's fixation for interest. “I'll sign you up for a shift, Hugo.” 

That's the last thing Hurley wants. _War Games_ sucked as a movie and he has no desire to enact it in real life. Maybe he can find his way back to the beach camp, maybe not, but he's sure as hell not staying here. Backing up, he collides with a metal tray full of tapes, and a few clatter to the floor.

Sayid pulls him into the living area, the silk back in his voice. “Hurley, I need you to help me sort through this chaos. Please, calm down.” 

“Those numbers... they're the same ones I used. That Danielle heard. Dude, what kind of coincidence is that?”

“Listen to me, Hurley. This sequence was obviously some kind of United States military code. Your friend heard them broadcast throughout the South Pacific. Now we find them in this station.” 

Even through his panic, Hurley admits to himself that Sayid's got a knack for this calming people down business, maybe even as good as Nurse Lazenby from the hospital. 

Sayid goes on, “Sometimes technical people use pi, or phi, or a Fibonacci series for their passwords, foolish as that may be. Whatever sequence these numbers represent, my guess is that those who made the broadcast also built this place, and used them for a pass code. Uncreative, but not surprising.”

Hurley's pounding heart starts to slow. “Sayid, why did that camera freak you out so bad?”

At first Sayid might stonewall it, but then changes his mind. “You know what I did in Iraq, during the war. What you don't know was that it was my idea to videotape the interrogation sessions, play them back, learn from them. My brother was my CO, and it earned us both a promotion. Whoever's watching us is probably doing the same.”

Injustice, anger, helplessness all wash over Hurley at once. “Let's go find 'em, dude.”

* * * * * * * *

The weary morning drags into afternoon. Sayid disables four more cameras, including one trained on the Swan Station door, and one in the geodesic computer room, where it watches whoever sits at the computer terminal.

Afterward, Hurley digs around in his backpack for some dried squid. When Desmond stares at him he says, “What? It's way past lunch. You want some?”

“You break into my house, I suppose I can feed you,” Desmond replies. From a cupboard he pulls crackers, a can labeled “Aerosolized Cheese Product,” and something called “Dharma Shaped Spiced Pork,” all in the same white wrappers. “That was the last of the Merlot. How about some port?”

“You call this your house?” Jack says, incredulous. “I thought you said you were held prisoner here.”

“It's all yours, brother. With your leave, I'll just pack my kit and go find my—“

Desmond doesn't get to finish, because Sayid bursts into the room. “Jack, with the right equipment, I think I could make a simple timer-based electronic circuit to enter this code. The computer keyboard input probably isn't necessary at all.”

“I wouldn't mess with it, brother,” says Desmond.

Sayid doesn't reply. The look of contempt which he sends Desmond says it all.

“Why wasn't it designed that way in the first place?” Jack asks.

Locke stops slicing the Dharma spam and sighs like a parent frustrated with stubborn children. Hurley wishes he would wipe the greasepaint off his face, because while it was bad out in the sun, it's ghastly under the harsh fluorescent lights. “Don't you see, Sayid?” Locke says. “We have to be the ones pushing this button, not some soulless piece of electronics.” 

“You can argue metaphysics with Jack all you want,” Sayid says, clearly disgusted. “I am going to look for electronics, flux, all the things I will require.”

After Sayid disappears into the corridor, Desmond says, “Maybe the builders were worried about error.”

“From the appearance of this station, it's been in operation for twenty-five, thirty years,” Jack remarks. “In all that time, you've never had any human error?”

“Oh, there's been human error, brother. My predecessor blew his brains out. Before Locke there banged on my door and practically gave me a concussion, I'd been contemplating the same.”

Hurley sets down his cracker piled high with knock-off Cheez Whiz. “Dude, you wanted to kill yourself?”

“And why the hell not?”

“Because, like, besides the obvious, if you killed yourself, what would happen to this place?”

Desmond laugh sounds cracked and humorless, and he takes a swig of port.

“It's a reasonable question,” Jack says. “Why do you even have to do this at all? What happens if you don't?”

“Jack, don't you see?” Locke's been pacing to and fro like a caged tiger, but now he stops. “We have to. This is what we were brought here to do.”

Kate was sprawled on the couch, but now springs to her feet. “Brought here? What kind of nonsense is that? Nobody brought us here. Our plane crashed.”

“Nothing's a coincidence, Kate,” Locke says, sounding just like that mystical guy on Kung Fu, the one the townspeople ignored at best and beat the crap out of at worst.

“Don't evade my question,” Jack says to Desmond in the voice he probably uses to tell somebody that if they don't listen to him, they'll be paralyzed for life. “What if you don't?”

Locke's eyes are black, incomprehensible wells. “Are you sure you want to tempt fate, Jack?” 

Jack scoffs. “This has nothing to do with fate, or belief, or anything else, John. Third time's a charm, Desmond, or I'm seriously thinking about inviting Sayid back in here and—“

“Jack!” Kate shouts, and he pauses, shocked. 

“Don't even go there, Jack,” Hurley says, deathly quiet. He may be fat as ever, but the daily workout called life on the Island has left him powerfully strong. “Because I will stop you.”

For an instant Jack looks so alone, with everyone against him. He fights to come back to himself, though, and wins. “Desmond, please. What happens if we don't enter the code?"

Desmond slams down the bottle of port so hard that it makes the unwashed dishes on the counter rattle. "You want to know what happens if you don't push the button? You really want to know?" 

He runs from the room, and Jack is too astonished to stop him. Returning with a crumpled pile of archaic computer paper, Desmond lets the folded pages drop open and stabs them repeatedly with a shaking finger. "This is what happened! I crashed your plane!"

* * * * * * * *

Later that night, Hurley trudges back to the beach camp through humidity thick as a sodden cloud. He, Sayid, and Locke are laden with Swan Station treasure: duct tape, soap, hand tools and cooking utensils. Hurley's managed to snag blankets, bed linens, and towels for Claire and the baby, as well. He plans to surprise Sawyer with a few Stephen King books, the really scary old ones like _Carrie, The Stand_ , and _Pet Sematary._

Whoever was living in the Swan Station before Desmond had some pretty morbid taste in reading.

In fact, Desmond's whole story was pretty morbid. His fellow key-pusher, a CIA spook named Kelvin, abandoned Desmond on the very day of the Oceanic 815 crash. Desmond chased after him, but the guy got away. Suddenly aware of the time, Desmond raced back to the Swan, which almost shook to pieces before he entered the numbers once more. He sat all alone for almost two months, drinking, entering the code, sleeping for barely an hour at a time.

No wonder he was ready to blow his brains out.

At the beach camp, Hurley scans for Claire, who's nowhere to be seen. Charlie and Boone are cooking in front of Boone's old tent, and Boone scowls when Shannon greets Sayid with a hug and an enthusiastic kiss. Danielle has set up a tent over by the women who hang with Kathy and Shana. At first Hurley wasn't sure if those two were a couple, but now it's obvious by how close they sit, how Kathy kisses Shana before tucking in for the night. Danielle chats with the women, relaxed, smiling.

When Boone sees Locke, he leaps to his feet at once, as if under orders. “Is it my shift?”

“Nah, you're off tonight,” Locke says. “Desmond, Jack and Kate are staying the night in the Swan. I've made up a roster. You're on tomorrow, Charlie.”

“Don't think so, mate. There's plenty of bodies to go around.” 

“Charlie, you've got a job to do. You can't just quit.”

“Bugger off, John,” Charlie says, ducking inside Boone's tent.

Whatever dissension is breeding in Locke's ranks, Hurley doesn't want to hear it. With a sigh, he drags his bundles to his own shelter.

“Hurley?” Claire calls from inside.

“Yeah, and I did some shopping, too.” Pulling the tent flap aside reveals the first pleasant surprise of the whole dreary day. Claire and the baby aren't resting on blanket-covered sand anymore. Instead, she sits cross-legged on a real bed made of stout bamboo, with the baby sleeping beside her. Sun sits on the bed's far corner, holding a little dish in which a candle-fish burns, and the makeshift lamp casts a cheery glow over the whole inside. On the bed, stitched-together airline blankets puff up up like a comforter. 

“Dried beach grass,” Claire says, giving the bed a pat.

“We sewed and stuffed it while Jin, Michael and some of the men built the platform,” Sun explains.

“Isn't it splendid?” Claire says. 

Hurley is so tired, so overwhelmed, that he almost can't fight the tears which well up. 

Sun misunderstands his silence, because she adds, “Jin-Soo suggested they reinforce the base. I hope that does not cause offense.”

“It's awesome, Sun. I'll, um, oh crap, sorry about this, I'm too tired tonight. I'll thank everybody in the morning.” He's ready to bawl like an exhausted toddler.

Now Claire and Sun both stare at him, knowing something's afoot, not knowing what. With a small polite smile, Sun says to Claire, “Here, let me put Aaron down. Jin-Soo is waiting for me.” 

Aaron doesn't even squeak when Sun lays him in an Oceanic food-tray container lined with a blanket. Silently she slips out, taking the candle-fish with her.

Hurley drops his burdens and whispers, “We can look at this stuff tomorrow.” Nothing from the Swan seems as wonderful as what people have put together for Claire and him with their own hands.

“You don't have to be quiet. It's good for Aaron to get used to noise.”

He sheds his clothes and crawls in next to her. The solidly-built bed squeaks a little, but holds. Stripes of moonlight peek through the cracks, silver instead of candle-fish gold. “You look great, Claire. Like you got your energy back.”

“You look like someone let the air out of you.”

“Yeah.” He wants to tell her everything, but doesn't want to upset the peaceful feeling of stillness and sanctuary which fills the space. “I got a story, but it can wait.” 

She smiles, radiant as she takes his hand in hers. “I've got a story too, the most wonderful one. It can wait too.” Her palm is cool to the touch, a little rough from the hard life they've been living. “Oh, yeah, look what I made.” 

Hidden in the folds of fabric of her loose blouse are two slits. She brings his hand up to one, and he parts it to feel her soft nipple. 

“Instant baby access,” she goes on. “Faith gave me one, and then I stitched my own. Her work's finer, though. I can make a cardboard box look like a Chippendale antique from the first row of the theater, but I'm all thumbs with a needle.”

Her breast is smooth, taut. He touches the nipple again, and a few drops wet his finger.

She doesn't shake him off, not exactly, just lies down at his side. He takes her in his arms, not for sex, because he knows that's not going to happen for a long time, but for the sheer pleasure of feeling her chest rise and fall in time with his. When he shifts, the mattress sends up the warm fragrance of afternoon sunlight trapped in dried grass. 

“Every time I think this can't get better, it does,” he whispers, but she's already asleep.

( _continued_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(A/N: The chapter title is cribbed from William Golding's novel _Lord of the Flies_.)**


	19. A Balm in Gilead

Morning breaks over the settlement. The Swan Station has only been open to the castaways since yesterday, but someone has already lugged a gallon container of cooking oil down to the beach, along with a few cast-iron pans. The delicious smell of a fry-up hangs in the air.

Claire, baby in arms, lifts a fried plantain to her mouth. She's not used to eating one-handed, and the morsel slips from her fingers to the sand. “Oh, bother.”

“Here, have some of mine,” Hurley says.

He's such a love. She grins, saying, “You'll have to feed me like one of those little birds.” 

Into her open mouth he pops one bit of plantain, then another. Breakfast finished, they stroll over to the small crowd surrounding Jin and Michael. They've just put the finishing touches on the shower, its tank made of metal from the fuselage, with a slide plate controlled by a wooden lever. The entire structure rests on a stout log frame, with a bamboo screen for privacy. Best of all, there's a palette to stand on, instead of mucky sand.

“The water should be warm,” Michael says to someone inside, invisible behind the bamboo lattice. “Tank's been full since yesterday.”

From behind the screen, Claire makes out a muscular brown arm reaching around for the lever. It engages with a loud snick, followed by a rush of water and several high-pitched shrieks.

“Warm? You lied!” Shannon bursts from behind the screen, soaking wet and wrapped in a towel. 

“I'll warm you up,” Sayid answers.

Shannon shrieks again, this time with laughter, and dashes away. Sayid gives chase, hair streaming over his wet shoulders, clutching his own towel around his waist.

Hurley laughs in great guffaws, while Michael raises his hands in confusion. “I guess the water cooled overnight.” Jin fights to keep a stone face, but loses. It's the first time Claire has ever seen him laugh.

After zig-zagging through the beach camp to peals of laughter, Shannon and Sayid duck into their tent.

“Okay, show's over,” Michael says. He scrutinizes the shower, the flow control requirements clearly more complicated than he imagined. To Hurley and Claire he says, “Don't know why I'm bothering, since there's a shower in that bunker.”

“Man, that's like half an hour away. You'd need another one by the time you got back.”

Hurley's reassurance seems to cheer Michael a little. “Come on, man,” he says to Jin. “Back to the drawing board.”

“Drawing board,” Jin repeats. “Keep trying, so we make better. Next time.”

Hurley and Claire continue eastward along the sea-strand, Claire nursing the baby as they go. They pause at a spot where the waves lap at wide, flat rocks strung with seaweed. Soft lavender clouds tinge the sea with violet and soften the morning sun. 

The baby squirms a little, full as a tick. “Guess he's ready for a burp,” Claire says.

Hurley holds out his hands. “I always wanted to try this.”

“Watch his head. They have rubber necks at this stage.”

Hurley cradles Aaron in both of his big hands, cupping the baby's head as it flops across his shoulder. He pats the baby gently until he makes a tiny burp, more like a low-pitched squeak. With the baby cradled against his chest, he sways back and forth in that way of his. It fills her with tenderness as Hurley nestles the tiny infant against his huge body, gazing down at the precious bundle.

Claire loves mornings on the Island better than any other time of day, and morning alone with Hurley is even better. They haven't had many moments like these, even before the baby arrived two days ago. In a weird sense she feels pregnant again, not with a child this time, but with the enormous story which she carries inside her, too big to be told anywhere except on this isolated stretch of beach.

The moment hangs between them, silent yet full of meaning. Gulls dive for fish, because death still happens on this Island, as Claire well knows. On the grand scale of things, however, life seems to be winning. The deep stillness blossoms into something living and real. Hurley gives her a small smile, and it's clear he feels it, too. The wind picks up his hair and plays with it so intimately that were a woman doing it, Claire would feel jealous. The baby lies asleep on his chest, as if transfixed by the beating of his heart.

Crabs scuttle past her feet, picking up bits of seaweed or fish carcass. Out to sea, the ocean changes from lavender to the purest blue Claire has ever seen. The stillness breaks when she finally speaks.

“Rose and I, we were talking yesterday, when you went to the Swan.”

Hurley, still lost in the moment, just nods.

“She helped me understand something I've wondered about since the crash. Why people healed from their injuries so fast. Why I've gotten better so quickly after having Aaron.”

Recognition lights up Hurley's eyes. “Like I, um, haven't needed my psych meds.” He hangs his head, embarrassed. “Even if I did have a panic attack.”

“You didn't need meds to get over it,” she reminds him. “Look, Rose was sick, really sick, with Stage IV uterine cancer. The treatment was just to buy her a little more time.” The enormity presses on Claire, as if she had barely believed it herself until now. “She and her husband were coming back from their honeymoon when we crashed.”

“Wow,” Hurley breathes out, almost too low to hear. “The way she talks about him, I thought they'd been married like thirty years.”

“I know, right? Listen, though. Before we crashed, she had all sorts of symptoms, and had to carry around a bag full of pills. After the crash everything was gone, the pain, having to use the loo all the time, and above all, the worry.”

“She told you all this?”

“Me and some of the other women. She said I could tell anyone I liked, that now it was time to testify.”

“Testify,” Hurley repeats. “Like, spread the good news.”

There's more, but Claire hesitates. Jack is convinced that the crash has broken Rose mentally, and Jack doesn't need to utter a single word to be convincing. The baby must feel the change in mood, because he stirs on Hurley's chest and whimpers a bit, before settling down again.

“When she was waiting to board, Rose dropped her bag of scrips. The chemo had done something to her nerves, made it so she couldn't hold onto things easily.”

Like Claire, Hurley has seen Rose shell crabs, cut the spiky skin off a durian fruit without pricking herself, fry up plantain, all without a tremble. “Holy crap,” he mutters. It's clear he believes her.

“All the pill bottles rolled everywhere.” Claire pauses, still struck by the size of what she is about to say. “Someone in a wheelchair helped her pick them up.”

“A wheelchair. Like the one we use to move stuff around.”

“That very one. Hurley, Rose says this person survived the crash, and they're walking around just fine on this beach.”

“Who?” In his head, he's clearly running through the same mental list she has, ever since yesterday. Like her, he's coming up blank. 

“She wouldn't say. It was their story to tell, as she put it.”

“Did she at least mention if it was a dude, or a chick?”

“She was careful not to.”

“Damn, it could be anybody. Well, not me. It wasn't me, I swear.”

“Me, either.” She laughs, mostly out of sheer relief that he believes her, and thus Rose. “I don't think it's as important who it was, as that it happened at all.” 

Hurley says, “Claire, what _is_ this place?”

The concern in his voice comes across so warm, so sincere. She has never felt as close to him as in this moment, not when his sizable flesh trembled under her hand or thrust itself all up inside her, not even during Aaron's birth. Some vast presence fills the empty beach, waiting for them to acknowledge its age, its size, that it has waited a very long time. Finally she says, “I don't know, Hurley. I just don't know.”

* * * * * * * *

Later that morning, Claire announces that she wants to trek along with Hurley and the others to the Swan Station.

Jack frowns in disapproval. “Claire, don't you think—“

“Nonsense. I've never felt better.” That's not quite true, but she feels orders of magnitude better than being nine months pregnant. True, her breasts are tender. She's always thirsty, and she could eat a whole smoked ham by herself. Her maternity pants flop even with the drawstring pulled tight, but she can't fit into her old, ordinary-sized jeans.

The jeans she was going to wear after the birth, on the return trip from Los Angeles to Sydney. After giving Aaron up, never to see him again. Never to play with his tiny pink toes as he nurses, or stroke the soft blond down on his round head. Never to wipe away the tiny bubble of milk that forms when the nipple drops from his sleep-slack mouth.

What was she thinking? The idea of adoption seems like madness now, because Aaron's very being is tied to hers by invisible threads. He's barely been out of her arms since the hour of his birth. Nothing will take him from her, not if she can help it. She remembers what she did when threatened, knows she could cheerfully do it again for the sake of her tender infant son.

Jack must sense some of her resolve. “Okay, but if you feel tired, you stop, all right?” A faint smile breaks out in spite of himself. “It's just that I've never had a nephew before.”

Kate laughs at this, and the amusement is infectious. “I'll stick to your pace, Claire, don't worry.”

“Mind another tag-along?” Rose says.

“Of course not,” replies Claire. “The more, the merrier.”

“You want me to carry the little guy for the first leg?” Hurley asks. 

“I'm fine,” Claire says. 

As they head out, Claire sweeps the beach camp with a final gaze. Sayid has already left for the Swan, leaving Shannon in her usual sunning spot. Shannon's pink, flushed glow isn't just from heat and humidity, but from morning love as well. Before Sayid left, Shannon teased him about bringing her “something nice from the Swan.”

The little sigh of envy escapes Claire before she can stop it. She sneaks a glance at Hurley, pulling an empty wheelie suitcase ready to be filled with Swan Station loot. She likes having her non-pregnant body back, but not for that. No way. Not that Hurley would pressure her, but even so, just the thought is overwhelming. 

She misses Rousseau, too, who has abandoned the beach camp and returned to her own compound. No one knows where it is, and she's made things plain that it's to stay that way. Only Sawyer brought up the notion of tracking her, and just once. In a firm voice, Kate said to him, “What, that Winchester 70 she gave you isn't enough? You follow her, you're going to get yourself killed.” 

That must have knocked some sense into him. Jack's group passes by Sawyer, stretched out like a lazy cat on a sunlit porch. He's reading _The Stand,_ even after grumbling how Hurley had brought back the original short version, not the uncut one. But beggars couldn't be choosers when they were stuck on Mystery Island, could they now?

In other words, everything on the beach radiates peace and harmony.

Halfway to the Swan Claire knows she's bitten off more than she can chew. It's not that she's tired, but shifting Aaron from one shoulder to the next, then cradling him until her arm gets numb exhausts her. Her earlier light mood fades, and suddenly the child feels like a leaden burden. “You go on ahead,” she tells Hurley and Kate.

“No way,” Hurley says. “I'm not leaving you.”

“She won't be alone,” Rose puts in. “Come on, honey, I didn't want to go to that damp old bunker anyway. You and me will just head back for some mid-morning tea.”

Hurley looks dubious. Far ahead of them, Jack and the rest of the band vanish through the dense trees.

“I'll tell Jack that you and Rose are going back,” Kate says to Claire. Hurley starts to protest, but Kate's already speeding down the path to catch up with Jack.

“I'm going back with you,” Hurley says.

Claire hates feeling like a drag on the whole project. “If you do that, you'll panic everyone. They're expecting you to catch up with the group. Rose and I will manage.”

Hurley's fleshy face sags with disappointment. “Aw, I wanted to show you around.” 

Claire grows more frustrated with each passing second. “There'll be time enough for that. Look, why don't you bring me a surprise?” 

“A surprise?” 

“Bring me one, too,” Rose says, a teasing note in her voice.

“You got it.” He brushes Claire's cheek in a quick kiss, still wearing that dubious look. Wheeled suitcase jouncing behind him, his broad back soon vanishes into the jungle gloom.

Claire doesn't get a hundred steps before the baby starts to fuss. Warm wetness collects under his bottom, and she sighs in frustration. “Rose, I'm afraid I have to pull over by the side of the road here.”

The two women plant themselves on low, flat rocks screened by thick shrubbery. As Claire changes the wet baby, his squeaks change to thin, piercing cries which echo on the trees, and Claire's frustration rises even higher than before. She's so bad at this, what was she thinking, setting off into the jungle with a baby? And what was Hurley thinking, to let her do it?

_That's stupid,_ she tells herself. Hurley doesn't know any more about babies than she does.

The weight of responsibility falls on her like bricks. As Rose unpacks a fresh nappie, Claire stuffs the wet one into a precious ziploc bag, already starting to fray from multiple washings. Stretched across her thighs, the baby works himself up into lusty screams, his tiny face scrunched and red, little limbs flailing.

Claire can't fight the tears which spill down her cheeks, and a few even splash onto the baby's chest. “What am I going to do? Oh, my God, I can't even manage the simplest things—“

Rose's firm voice brings Claire back to herself. “He's nervous because you are.”

Something stubborn inside Claire wants to argue. “How do you know? I mean, I've talked to most of the women in camp, and guess what, Rose? Nobody has had a child. Nobody! How does it happen that with all these women here, no one's a mother?” 

When the baby stops to catch his breath, the forest spreads out around them, vast and very still. Suddenly a twig cracks as if underfoot, followed by a few faint rustles, then silence.

“Did you hear that?” Claire says. Her obsidian knife is strapped to her calf with a piece of leather belt, but she's afraid that if she reaches for it, Aaron will slide off her lap.

“Probably just a bird.” Rose does a fair job of keeping a tremor out of her voice. “Come on, honey, let's head back.”

As soon as Claire start walking, Aaron settles against her, quiet. Under tall trees arched like a green cathedral, Rose sings in a quiet contralto, the words weaving themselves into the soft breath of the jungle itself.

“There is a balm in Gilead  
To make the wounded whole  
There is a balm in Gilead  
To heal the sin-sick soul...”

When she finishes, Rose says, “I was a mother.”

Still lost in the song's rhythmic enchantment, Claire almost trips over her tongue to apologize. “I never thought to ask you. Just the women who were younger.” It sounds even more stupid now that she's said it. “God knows what I was thinking.”

“It's all right. I kept quiet for a reason.”

“Oh, Rose, what happened?”

“I was real young, just out of high school. The daddy was a silver-tongue devil, all talk and sparkle till the Army gave him a one-way ticket to 'Nam. My momma was furious 'cause she knew I'd have to drop out of business college, but she wouldn't hear of me giving the baby up. We'd raise it together, she said. Turns out, it didn't matter.”

Claire takes Rose's hand and pulls her close, knowing what's coming next.

“Things were different then. Lots of women who lost babies never saw them, but the nuns at the hospital made sure I got to hold my Maddie till she passed.” She brushes away the tears, but it's clear that Rose will never brush away the memories. 

Claire knows why Rose never said anything, at least not before Aaron's birth. “I'm so, so sorry.”

“She's at peace. I know it.”

The noon-time jungle has grown quiet again, as if all the birds have gone to sleep, or flown away somewhere else. Even without twig-snaps or rustling, Claire still feels like they're being watched. 

Rose goes on, “I know everything's gonna be all right.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so. Because Maddie told me.”

Claire's first instinct is to reject the whole crazy notion out of hand, but a small voice inside stops her. _Who the hell are you kidding?_ She herself had gone to a psychic, and not just on a lark, either. She had really believed that he could tell her what to do about the baby. Psychics channeled the spirits of the dead, didn't they? Astrology implied that the stars could affect lives through unseen forces. 

Was this any crazier? “How? What happened?” Claire asks in a hushed voice.

“I saw her three days ago, up by the caves. The trees started to whisper like they were saying prayers, and there she was. A little girl, so sweet and pretty, hair up in braids like I had at that age. 'Don't worry,' she said. 'Bernard's coming real soon.' Then she just kind of faded away.” Rose wipes her eyes. “I don't expect you to believe me.”

“Listen, I do.” As Claire speaks, her words form into a pact, one which sets her feet on a fixed path. It's real, all of it. Real as keeping Aaron, real as loving Hurley. Or believing Rose, for that matter. Claire might look at the path behind her, but she can never go back. 

_What else will I come to believe about this place?_

The silent, beautiful trees have no answer.

* * * * * * * *

When Claire and Rose push through the bracken surrounding the beach camp, Sun and Faith run to them with anxious faces.

“We're fine,” Rose says. “We never made it to the Swan. Just decided to come back for a rest instead.”

Claire's row of first-class seats has never looked so inviting, but Faith tugs Claire away. “You're lucky. We just finished this for you.”

The women flock to Kathy and Shana's circle, where Faith holds up a garment like a flowered apron with four wide straps. Claire stares at it without comprehension, until Sun says, “It was my husband's idea. In his village the women carried their babies to the fields in slings.”

“You guys...” Tears sting Claire's eyes at this enormous kindness. “I can't thank you enough.”

“While you were in labor, we tested it with a sack of passion-fruit,” Faith says.

Shana adds, “You're lucky you didn't see the first tries. Glad it wasn't a baby.”

“It's a bit tricky to tie at first,” says Faith. “But when you get the hang of it, you can secure Aaron by yourself.”

It's easy to criss-cross the straps around her shoulders and tie them in the front. The baby rests secure against Claire's collarbones, and best of all, for the first time in two days her hands are free. She stretches her arms and deposits kisses on the baby's head. The women watch, admiring their handiwork. 

“Such a cunning idea,” Claire says. “It holds him right up.”

Faith grins and says, “I have a feeling we're going to need a couple more of these.”

Sun just smiles.

Claire's so entranced by her free hands that at first she doesn't notice the throng returning from the Swan. When Hurley smiles from across the beach, though, the full meaning of Faith's remark hits her. They could be here long enough for Faith and even Sun to have their babies.

Hurley gapes in open surprise at the baby sling as he drops the laden suitcase at his feet. His smile widens when she proudly points to a pot of crab chowder, simmering in coconut milk. “Jin snagged the crabs for me, but I did the rest.”

Jin hears his name and looks up from tending his own fire, so Claire beckons him over. 

Hurley pulls out a pair of dikes from a suitcase pocket. “Hey, Jin. Sayid thought you might use these for, you know, nets and stuff.”

Before Jin can turn to go, Claire says, “Wait. I didn't thank you.”

When he seems confused, she points to the baby snug in his carrier. “For the sling. Sun said you came up with the idea.”

He breaks into a broad smile and says a few sentences in Korean, repeating one distinctive word several times.

“ _Podegai?_ ” Claire says, tugging on a strap.

Jin clearly likes being the teacher for once, rather than the taught. “ _Podegai_ is for baby. Keep him safe.”

Hurley fumbles for something else in the suitcase. “Dude, your English is getting awesome.”

“Thank you.” Jin gives a small bow, puts the wire cutters in his pocket, then points to his shelter. “I must go back. So Sun can cook.”

“Sure, man. Gotta keep those home fires burning.” Hurley turns to Claire, and she can smell the forest on him, green and cool. 

_Maybe I can do this being-a-mother thing after all,_ she thinks. 

“I got you something special.”

She couldn't have predicted in a million years what he presses into her hand. It's a Lisa Frank ballpoint pen, bright with yellow daisies, pink peace signs, and violet squiggles. She clicks it a few times, experimentally.

Hurley's one step ahead of her. “It works.”

“It's wonderful. I had one just like it. I think my pen's about to dry up, so this is perfect.”

He's positively beaming. She reaches for him, but the sling makes her have to hug him from the side. As she nuzzles his soft upper arm, she finds that sideways has its advantages too. “What on earth would it be doing in that place?” she muses, comfortable against his body.

“Dunno. This was under a chair. Weird, huh? Like it just rolled there or something. You don't mind that it's not new or nothing?”

“Of course I don't mind. By the way, what'd you get Rose?”

He shows her a tube of Dharma-brand lip balm, unopened. “Guess I better go give it to her.”

As he crosses the camp, she inspects the pen. Everything from the Swan so far has been packaged in stark black-on-white, save for this bright enigma wrapped in candy-colored mystery.

( _continued_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N: “There is a Balm in Gilead” is a traditional 19th century African-American spiritual.)


	20. Close Encounters

Every time Hurley drops off to sleep, the baby's whimpers shove him back to wakefulness. Through a grey fog of exhaustion he hears Claire chuckle to herself, “Well, looks like the milk's finally come in.” He's too tired to ask what that means, and by morning he's forgotten about it. When the sun rises, Claire is propped up in bed nursing Aaron, for what seems like the hundredth time since last night. 

Only three days old, Hurley thinks to himself as he pulls himself to his feet. He can't imagine weeks of this, months maybe. With a grateful sigh, Claire lays the baby down in Hurley's spot and closes her eyes, asleep almost at once.

He staggers out of the tent and heads for the sea, the Island's own breakfast buffet. 

Jin smiles and waves as Hurley passes. “You look tired.”

“Dude, you have no idea.” Hurley doesn't want to crowd into Jin's fishing space, so he turns to move down the shoreline, when Jin gestures him to stay.

Hurley swishes his net half-heartedly through choppy waves, with no idea of how Jin does it. His net seems to fill by itself, like the dude's a fish whisperer or something. 

After Jin empties a couple of filled nets, he gives Hurley a look both scrutinizing and compassionate. “Sun and I, we watch you. For when our baby comes.”

The morning suddenly seems brighter. “Man, that's fantastic. It's like a baby epidemic.”

Jin frowns in confusion. “Epi... dem-ic?”

“Never mind. That's great, man. Really great.” Hurley swipes his own net a few more times, but the fish are ignoring him this morning. Jin notices, and hands Hurley three fat pink sea bream. Jin's English is coming along crazy fast, but behind his eyes lurk a thousand stories, if he could only tell them. All Hurley knows is what Sun has told Claire, that Jin was a businessman in Seoul. Businessman, right. One who knows the sea the way Hurley can navigate a Camaro LM-1 350 V-8 engine. Like it was second nature.

Hurley helps Jin gut and string the generous catch. As gulls scream and cluster around the growing pile of guts, pinkish blood stains their white feathers. It's all good, because more fish guts means more gulls' eggs.

Claire will like that.

The load is so big, it takes both Jin and Hurley to carry it back to camp. When Sun sees the size of the catch, she grins and says to her husband, “You should take Hurley with you every morning. Clearly, he is good luck.” 

People gather round while Jin and Hurley pass out gutted fish. Kenneth and old-hippie Brian linger to chat, as does Michael. When Walt shoves his fish into his cargo pocket, Michael winces. “You're the one who's gonna wash out those pants, buddy.”

Walt shrugs. “I'm going down the beach to where Vincent is, okay?” The dog has discovered the gut pile, and chases away the remaining gulls with loud barks, his tail wagging so hard that his whole body shakes. Michael waves for Walt to go on, but he is already gone. 

Vincent then shoves his muzzle into the red pile. No need for dog food on Mystery Island.

In front of his tent, a solitary Boone hunches over a small fire and stirs the ashes, so Jin picks up a few of the remaining fish and heads towards him. At the same instant, Sayid and Shannon emerge from their own shelter, both dusted with a pink-gold glow which has hovered over them for the past few weeks.

With an angry scowl, Boone waves Jin's offer away. As Shannon passes, she snaps, “Now who's the anorexic?” 

Sayid stifles a chuckle and steers her clear of Boone. “When he's hungry enough, he'll eat,” he says, as if Boone is a stubborn toddler.

Michael points out to sea, where a distant thundercloud approaches on the wind. "You see that out there? Me, I'm still holding out for rescue. But these tarps aren't gonna do much if there's a big storm, much less monsoon season. People might want to start building houses." 

“It's early November,” Brian remarks. “Should be monsoon season already.”

Kenneth muses, rubbing his bald head. “There's a reason people all over the South Pacific construct thatch houses. We have tons of ironwood, and pili grass is everywhere. You tie it onto the roof, braid it like hair to keep out the water.”

Hurley nods. Sayid has showed everyone how to put watersheds on their shelter roofs, to direct the flow of rain away from the insides. But keeping the tents free from leaks is often a losing battle. 

“When do we start?” Brian says, giving Kenneth a warm look. “I'd like a house.”

“I'm game,” Michael says. “You in, Hurley?”

 _Yes_ hangs on the tip of Hurley's tongue, yet won't dislodge. Something about a house feels awfully, well, permanent. It's not just that his parents are probably out of their minds with grief. Yeah, even Dad, although six weeks ago Hurley wouldn't have admitted it. 

Sure, his parents are taken care of. The trust that the lawyer set up sees to it, whether Hurley's in the picture or not. Sure, he wants his parents to know he's alive. That's not all of it, though. Hurley wants to bring both Claire and Aaron into his house, to give them a place to shelter. To introduce Claire to Uncle Emil, Aunt Rosalita, his mob of cousins and second cousins. Even to Diego, who will probably snark about how both Reyes brothers have a weakness for cute blondes, even if that didn't work out too well for Diego himself.

If Claire would want to, that is. Hurley chokes a little inside, because with the baby coming and everything else, he's never asked her. Time to remedy that. All he says to Michael is, “I'll give you guys a hand. But I'm kinda holding out for rescue, too.”

“Understandable,” Kenneth says with a nod.

Brian adds, “You got a baby to worry about.”

“No kidding,” Michael says. “Myself, I can't wait to get my boy to New York. The look on his grandma's face when she sees—“ His voice goes dead as a radio being switched off when he gazes down in Walt's direction.

Hurley stares, too. “Guys, tell me that I'm not crazy. That you see what I'm seeing.”

Walt isn't the only one playing with a wriggling, barking Vincent. Two blond, ragged children skip and laugh with Walt at the water's edge. The smaller one, a boy, holds out a piece of driftwood to Vincent like a lure, then tosses it into the surf. Vincent bounds in after it, but the stick has sunk into the water. He lopes back, panting, his head lowered in doggie disappointment. 

As the four men approach Walt and the children, the older one says to the younger, “Silly, don't throw the stick into the water.” She then says to Walt, “You're so lucky. We could never have a dog, so my idiot brother doesn't know how to play fetch.”

“Do too,” the boy says. He sticks out his tongue at her, then darts away as the ever-hopeful Vincent follows, yipping with excitement.

“Holy crap,” Hurley says. 

“Dad!” Walt shouts through his wide grin. “Dad, look!”

Michael's terrified gaze darts right and left. “Walt, get over here right now!” 

At Michael's tone, the new children freeze, eyes wide and astonished. Vincent goes to lie at their feet as a reluctant Walt sidles over to Michael.

“Take it easy, Mike,” Kenneth says. “They're just kids. And you remember what Sawyer and Sayid said, that there likely were more of us.”

“They could be Others,” Michael mutters in a voice which makes Hurley very glad that none of them are armed.

Brian kneels down and holds an outstretched hand to the two children. “Hey, man, we come in peace. Name's Brian.”

The girl is just about to shake when a woman's voice echoes from the jungle's edge. “Zack! Emma! Are you there?” She pushes her way through the copse towards the shore, her heavy Australian accent ringing with authority. “Children, please come here at once.”

Obediently the kids trot over to the woman, who wraps them protectively in her arms. She eyes Hurley and the others with calm, cool appraisal.

“ _Could_ they be Others?” Kenneth whispers to Hurley.

“Dude, no way. Look at her.”

The woman's dark skirt and light blue blouse are torn and streaked with grime, but there's no mistaking the Oceanic Airlines wings pinned to her front pocket. 

Michael sputters, “You're one of the stewardesses. From the plane.”

She almost smiles. “Flight attendant, sir, if you don't mind. I remember you and your son. A charming boy.”

This makes Michael dial it down a few notches. He starts to say, “Are there any more—“ but is interrupted by loud rustles from the bushes.

The foliage parts to reveal an enormously tall and ripped dark-skinned man, followed by a tough-looking woman in a tank top as black as her hair, who rests on her long, shrapnel-tipped spear. “Cindy, you all right? We ran as fast as we could.” 

“I told you, Ana,” the big man says in a lilting accent. “Sooner or later we would find the others.”

“Okay, Eko,” Ana says. “Power of prayer, yadda yadda, don't rub it in.” 

Everybody's still clutching their fish, which gives Hurley an idea. Over by what's left of the gut pile stands a mound of driftwood. “Kenneth, you got your flint starter?”

“Never leave home without it.”

“We were just gonna make a fire,” Hurley says to the newcomers. It's untrue, but Ana's not hostile, he realizes. Just hungry. “You guys, um, want some breakfast?”

“I do!” Zack pipes up, tugging on Cindy's hand.

Once more Cindy gives everyone that scrutinizing look. Flight attendants don't just strut around in heels and mini-skirts like in the movies. They watch passengers, see who's going to freak or who might even be a terrorist. If there's an emergency, they keep passengers calm, even help save their asses if a plane goes down. No stilettos here, either. Cindy's sensible black oxfords are wiped clean and neatly laced, strangely normal and reassuring against the white beach sand.

“You're all from Oceanic 815, out of Sydney on September 22, 2004?” Cindy asks. 

The men nod, and Walt blurts out, “We crashed! We've been here for months! My dog, that's Vincent, he made it too, and there's still a big chunk of the plane on the beach, and—“

“Easy, Walt,” Michael says. “Time enough for all that.”

“Did you crash, too?” Walt says.

“Yes, we did,” Eko answers.

“Let me give you a hand,” Hurley says to Kenneth, who's already put together a nest of tinder for a fire. 

“It's almost unbelievable,” Kenneth says in a low voice, in between puffs on tiny sparks which flare into flame almost at once. “Don't know if you looked behind you, but the tail section broke clean off. I was staring directly into sky. And that was the best of it.”

As Hurley skewers one fish after another on long sticks, he says a silent _Salve Regina_ for the living people who blew out of that great, gaping hole into the beyond.

“So, is that all of you?” Brian asks Cindy, but she averts her eyes.

Eko fills in the silence a little too hastily and calls out behind him, “Libby, Bernard, over here. Everything is fine. These people are from the plane.”

Libby, tall and lean, pushes through the branches. That must be Bernard after her, a pale, chunky man with grey hair. 

Bernard squints both from bright beach sunlight and eyes full of tears. “Oh, my God. There are more of us.”

“Hey,” Hurley says. “Pull up a log. Breakfast is almost ready.”

Libby clusters close to the women, threading her arm through Ana's, and rests her head on Ana's shoulder in exhausted relief. Something in the way her eyes droop shut, the way her head inclines in profile, nags at Hurley. Maybe he saw her asleep on the plane. People sleep on planes all the time, right? Inside he knows that's not the case. Hurley's good with faces, but he didn't notice this woman on the plane.

“Is this it?” Bernard says, and now the tears spill freely onto his cheeks. 

“Relax, man,” Brian says. “There's a lot more of us where we came from.”

“Is one of you an African-American woman?”

The small hairs on Hurley's arms start to rise, and he almost forgets to turn the fish before it starts to smoke. “Yeah. That'd be Rose. She's great.”

“Oh, God,” Bernard repeats. Squatting by the fire, he buries his face in his hands and begins to weep.

* * * * * * * *

Claire sits at the easternmost edge of the camp with Sun and a few other women, wolfing down fish sizzling with fat and tart with lemon. Hurley gave her the bream, a quick kiss, then disappeared with Michael and the guys down the beach again. His own cooked breakfast sits untouched. What's keeping him?

Half a klick down the beach, Hurley stands out against the group as a large dark figure with a frizzy halo. Then Claire notices two small forms cavorting around Walt. When she gasps, other women crowd around to look. They stare in horrified fascination as more figures emerge from the jungle. 

Claire springs to her feet for a better view, which makes Aaron cry a bit in protest. She darts over to Jack and Kate's fire, where they're just cleaning up. “You've got to see this,” Claire says. 

 

Jack doesn't need to ask what's wrong. He shoulders his rifle, and the three of them head to Sawyer's tent. He sits under a tarp reading that thick book about the end of the world, oblivious to the developing situation.

As Claire approaches, Sawyer says, “Hey, Mamacita. That there baby's pink as a posy now. Not so red anymore.” When he sees Jack and Kate at her side, he lowers the book with a frown.

"We've got company," Jack says.

Sawyer seizes his Winchester rifle, Danielle's parting gift from their eye-blink of an affair, and springs to his feet. 

“Get Boone, take covered positions, and wait for my signal,” Jack says between gritted teeth. “Claire, tell everyone to get inside their tents and stay there until they hear otherwise.”

“Jack, is this necessary?” Kate says.

“If this is the other shoe waiting to drop, it's not going to land on our heads. Not on my watch. Claire, please. And Kate, maybe you should—“ 

Kate draws her handgun from the back of her jeans. “I'm going with you.”

The beach camp scatters for cover, all but Rose, who refuses to budge from her seat around the main camp-fire. Once more Claire wonders if Jack is right about her mental fragility. Sawyer has taken a position behind the shower, while Boone crouches behind a tree trunk. 

Claire appeals to Rose. “Please, there's plenty of room in my tent. I don't want to be by myself.”

“You go on, honey. You're not by yourself.”

It's maddening, but Claire has no choice. Inside her shelter, she lowers the tarp flap and puts Aaron on the breast to keep him quiet.

The wait seems to go on for a long time. At least there is no gunfire, just a rising buzz of conversation. What brings her out of her tent are the sounds of sobbing.

Rose and this older man are hugging amid their tears. He touches her face, her hair, strokes her cheek, then pulls her head down to his chest, where he cradles her and points his open, anguished face skyward. They seem oblivious to everyone else, the newcomers, the beach camp survivors who've emerged from cover, at Walt who's practically leaping with happiness.

The only one of the new arrivals who seems at all unhappy is the intense-looking dark-haired woman, who stares at the rifles as if she badly wants one for herself. She looks like she'd know how to use one, too. The dark-skinned man towers over everyone else, peaceful and benign.

There, oh my God, is that kind flight attendant from Melbourne, the one who let Claire move to two side-by-side empty seats so she could stretch out to ease the pressure of her pregnant stomach. 

Everyone clusters around Rose and her husband, greeting Bernard as if they know him already, which in a way they do.

 _Maddie told her_ , Claire reminds herself. _Rose's dead daughter said she'd see Bernard soon. And here he is._ It sends a shiver up her spine.

As Hurley rushes to her side, Claire's knees almost buckle from sheer relief. She clings to him as he says, “Isn't this awesome? They're from the plane.”

“It's marvelous,” she answers, exulting in his warm fleshiness inside the circle of her arm, rejoicing that no one got trigger-happy or paranoid over fellow Oceanic 815 survivors.

At the same time, Claire stifles her despair as she silently counts noses. Their flight upon departure was almost full, which meant upwards of 300 passengers. With the people in their own camp and these survivors, that's still under fifty left. For an instant the loss overwhelms her again, as it did the night of the memorial service. So many people on their way to weddings or conferences or back to their jobs after vacations, got on a plane in Sydney not knowing they had about six hours to live.

 _Life can be that short,_ Claire thinks. _That fragile._

Hurley doesn't pick up on her mood, as he's too busy beaming at Rose and Bernard. The tall woman in the brown halter dress keeps glancing at Hurley in a way which makes Claire nervous, so she gives Hurley a see-you-later squeeze and goes over to introduce herself.

Libby is her name, Libby Smith. Her anxious expression melts when she peers down at Aaron, snug in his _podegai._ “You must have had your baby on the Island, right?”

“That's right. This is Aaron.”

As Libby muses over the sleeping child, Claire sizes her up. Her wide green eyes are ringed with fatigue, and her dress isn't brown after all, but beige under the layers of Island dirt. It makes sense, since none of the new people have packs or suitcases of any kind. Claire can't even begin to imagine two months in the bush with literally nothing save what's on their backs. No wonder Libby wears a haunted expression.

“That shirt looks good on you, by the way.”

What is Libby talking about? Shirt? Claire points to her embroidered blue cotton blouse. “This? I found it in some luggage.” Then embarrassment washes over her. “Was it yours? I'm afraid I've altered it a bit.”

Libby's brittle smile doesn't reach her eyes. “I bought it at the duty-free shop in the Sydney airport.”

This is really getting awkward. “You know, after the crash we all just sorted through the luggage, passed things out. A lot's left over. We could look for more of your stuff later. Or if you really want it back, I could sew up the nursing slits—”

“It's all right,” Libby says. “It's more your color than mine, anyway.”

Claire breaks the stiff silence with, “Well, when you've had some time to settle, I'll show you where we keep things. And there's a shower, too. Not just the bush shower over there, but a real one.” As soon as she says it, Claire kicks herself inside, not wanting to imply Libby smells bad or anything, which she doesn't. Libby's not looking at her, though. She's off staring at Hurley, which unsettles Claire all over again, because she's pretty sure there's no desire in Libby's covert glances. That would almost be easier to deal with than this odd, ambivalent scrutiny.

They're interrupted by the young girl, who looks about ten, and suddenly Libby is all smoothness and smiles. “Emma, meet Claire and Aaron.”

“Aw, so cute,” Emma says. “Zack, come here and look.”

Zack won't break away from Walt, though. With a grin full of mischief he says, “Ooh, a little diaper baby.” 

Walt laughs too, then says, “Hey, Aaron's all right. He almost never cries.”

“Baby, baby, diaper baby,” Zack chants as the two boys dart off.

“Don't go far,” Cindy says, at same time Michael calls out, “Stick, around, Walt.” They look at each other and smile, ice broken.

“Zack's a good kid,” Libby says, almost apologetically. “Seven is an energetic age. They're still learning what's socially appropriate.”

“Can I hold him?” Emma says.

Claire doesn't want to refuse the girl outright, but luckily Libby steps in. “Not right now, Emma. Why don't you see if Cindy needs some help gathering supplies?” Across the circle, Kathy, Shana, and Cindy are rounding up tarps for the new people. The thunderhead's a few hours away, and they'll need someplace dry to go.

“You're good with kids,” Claire says when Emma's out of earshot. “Do you have any?” Too late she realizes that Libby could have lost a child in the crash, or have left one bereft at home. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ she tells herself.

To Claire's relief, Libby shakes her head. “I'm a child psychologist in Los Angeles. Emotional difficulties, adjustment issues, oppositional defiant disorder, that sort of thing.”

“Well, looks like you're good at it.”

“Thanks.” As Libby speaks, she's studying Hurley from afar once more. “I imagine it was a great comfort to be with your husband afterwards. It was very hard on Bernard. I don't think a day went by when he didn't mention his wife.”

Claire hasn't felt this flustered since high school. “We're not married. We, uh, met after the crash.”

Libby's breath is long and indrawn, full of unspoken calculations. “Ahh. My apologies.” She deliberates for a heartbeat, as if deciding something. “Ana Lucia and I met after the crash, too.”

Claire tries not to look surprised, or relieved, for that matter. “Kathy and Shana, they're out. So are Brian and Kenneth. They didn't know each other beforehand, either.” She leaves out Locke and Boone, even though she and Shannon have suspected for a good month now. “So much better when everyone can be open, wouldn't you say?”

“That's definitely true for my adolescent patients.” The quality of Libby's sadness shifts, making her seem fragile and vulnerable. “It wasn't my experience growing up.”

Before Claire can murmur something sympathetic, Libby says, “Thanks for letting me know. I wasn't sure if we'd have to set up separate tents.” With a small wave and even smaller smile she's gone, off to join Ana and Cindy as they settle in.

* * * * * * * *

That night Aaron goes to sleep at once, much to Hurley's relief. The rain has come and gone, just enough to cool things off, and with no leaks. He stretches out in bed, head reeling from the newcomers' non-stop saga of adventures in seven weeks roaming the Island's eastern region. Claire snuggles up to him, arm draped over his chest, her face pressed into his neck. She's as tired as he is, probably more, but in their first moments alone all day, the need to talk presses on him.

She must feel the same, because her eyes spring open at once when he whispers, “Claire?”

“Really, you don't have to hush for Aaron. What a day, eh?”

“Man, that really must have sucked, burying eight people with no shovels. And not all of them died quick, either, it sounded like.”

“Not to mention, not having any luggage except a few scraps of what washed up on the beach.”

“They did find that knife in the woods, though,” Hurley points out. “Not a Swiss Army one, either. US Army, probably Korea vintage, like Ana Lucia said. She knows guns and knives.” 

Hurley lies silent for a time, the pressure in his chest growing as Claire's hand roves over his chest and upper belly. 

“Ana and Libby did feel bad, though, when Sawyer brought up that business about running into Goodwin Stanhope in the bush,” Claire goes on. “When Bernard was stuck in that tree, he saw Goodwin poke around a bit, then run away. Bernard told them, but when they searched and didn't turn up anything, Ana and Libby just wrote it off as shock.”

“I have the feeling they dodged a bullet with that guy.”

“And it was so weird, that seven of their people just took off like that, leaving them.”

“At least they found another one of those military stations to stay in for awhile.” Hurley frowns, because this part of the story doesn't sit well with him at all.

Of the fourteen survivors who made it, nine were dudes and three were chicks, not counting the kids. Nathan and Ana Lucia started fighting almost from the start. Finally, after a couple weeks, he and six other guys said that they were going off on their own. 

Women, kids, and old men were slowing them down, Nathan had said. He and his pals tried to pressure Eko into going with them, but Eko refused. A priest stays with his flock, Eko told them.

Some flock, Nathan had scoffed. All the weaklings. Well, not Ana Lucia, he added. Not that they were extending any invitations to a bitch like her.

“They couldn't stay in that Arrow Station forever,” Claire remarks. “Sounds like they had hunted and foraged out the whole area. I'm glad they're here, though. And it's wonderful for Walt to have playmates.”

“How weird is it, too, that Eko's a priest?” Hurley hopes she'll pick up on the veiled hint, but she just snuggles in close and closes her eyes. As her relaxed body drapes against his, desire pounds him, leavened by the pain of not telling her why he wants a priest in the first place.

( _continued_ )


	21. Harvest Home

Days stretch into a week, then two, as the newcomers blend in with the rest of the beach camp. For Claire, time flows like a river over stones, every foaming wave distinct, while the river's underlying bed remains the same. Every morning she rises by Hurley's side, the inside of their tent crackling with desire, as she listens for the sleeping child's breath. 

If Aaron doesn't waken, she makes love to Hurley with her hands. She has no appetite for his flesh inside her, and he never pushes. Her palms, though, have grown eyes and fingers and a life of their own as they roam over his substantial flesh. He tingles in time with her and smells of fertility when he comes. 

He wants to reciprocate, to please her as well, but she gently turns him aside. For now, everything which delights her passes through her hands, fed by his beautiful skin. Afterwards she holds him, her face pressed into his neck, eyes closed, joining his breath with her own, yet always listening for the child. 

Sometimes at night she feels him under her palms, even when they're not touching. In the dark, he seems to fill the air around her.

If he had something to say to her those weeks ago, and she knows he did, the moment has passed for now. It's all right, though, because the silence which fills the spaces between them has no absence in it, no emptiness. Instead, Claire senses an overwhelming presence, one which abides alongside sleep and work and love. 

This morning starts like every other. Cindy has put the children to work gathering wood for the morning communal fire, and even Walt now lends a hand. If there was any doubt that Rose and Bernard were honeymooners before the crash, that notion has been long since dispelled. Even when their eyes don't follow each other, even when their attention points elsewhere, they move and breathe as one.

Bernard shows himself expert with camp cookery as he smacks land crabs right between the eyes and wraps them for roasting. Claire can't resist the enticing smell of charred crab. She and Hurley peel off leaf wrappers, dodging the sizzling fat which sputters through the cracked shells. “Careful, it's going to hit the baby,” she says, holding her breakfast off to the side. Her eyes meet Hurley's, and even though they haven't been parted in the same way as Rose and Bernard, the moment hangs in the air between them in the same way.

Only they're both a mess as lemon-flavored crab juice runs down their chins. They lick their fingers, while over by the cooking fire, Rose rests her head on Bernard's shoulder. 

“He really loves her,” Hurley says out of nowhere.

Claire doesn't answer. Something in his tone signals more to come, something which has been waiting for weeks to emerge from the silence. Hurley is devouring her with his eyes, and the noise from the beach seems to fade around them. 

Once again it passes, all too soon. He says, “Hey, baby, no crab for you,” as he picks off a fleck which has fallen on Aaron's shoulder. 

At the west end of the beach, Kenneth and Brian have raised the frame for a steep-roofed Polynesian-style house. On the eastern side, Eko and Charlie have lashed together a more familiarly-shaped structure. Now Charlie stands on a makeshift ladder, placing the first layer of thatching for the roof. 

A good-natured competition between east and west has been going on for some time, but Eko is probably going to win. His church is designed to have no walls, only a roof, he says. It will be open to everyone, whether they believe or not. There are enough walls in the world as it is.

As Claire dabs the baby with a rag, chasing any crab specks, Sayid approaches with Shannon at his side. He wears a back-pack and a let's-start-the-day expression. “Are you two coming to the Swan?” 

Hurley glances at Claire. “You want to come along?” 

“Not this time, thanks.”

“I'm not going, either,” Shannon puts in. “That place smells like armpit.”

The Swan has long since lost its novelty for Claire. The constant flux of people using the facilities has left the Station's plumbing barely functioning. The air conditioning has started to dangerously wheeze, and the washing machine makes odd clunks, too. 

“One of the main fans has failed,” Sayid says, as if apologizing. “I've put it on the repair list.”

Sayid's automatic code-entering circuit has removed the need to assign shifts of button-pushers. No one is surprised that Locke has taken this hard. He goes out hunting with Boone now, or sulks around the beach camp and sermonizes to whoever will listen about how the Swan Station is a blot on the landscape. On the Island itself.

Still, Sayid pokes through the Swan's bowels the way Claire imagines Jack would sort through someone's damaged vertebrae. Hurley's knowledge of electricity is limited to the wiring in vintage cars, but Sayid still likes having Hurley around while he works. A few days ago, while tearing up some computer room floor panels, Sayid found a whole set of circuit boards not on the blueprints. For Sayid, the hunt is on once more.

“Sure, Sayid,” Hurley says. “I'm just gonna ask around first, see if anyone else wants to go.” He busses the top of Aaron's head, then lingers on Claire's cheek with a beard softer than it looks, his lips warm. She likes that he no longer shaves.

The men approach Eko, who refuses but nods, _Go ahead_ to Charlie. Claire plops herself and Aaron down on a towel next to Shannon, who's wasting no time working on her tan. Claire doesn't even bother to put a hat on Aaron, or cover his oyster-pale skin. The sun casts its warm light, but doesn't burn them.

“It's like they're off to work, isn't it?” Claire says. “While we bask on the beach, eating bon-bons.”

“I don't know why I bother. I never get any darker.”

As Bernard and Rose tidy up the communal kitchen area, Rose breaks into a song Claire has never heard before. She'd be great on-stage, Claire thinks, because Rose can really project.

_Come, ye thankful people come,_  
Raise the song of harvest home,  
All is safely gathered in  
Ere the winter storms begin... 

It gets Shannon's attention, too. “Winter storms, as if. New York City, on the other hand—“

“Shhh,” Claire says, not from meanness, but because she wants to drink in every note. Rose goes on about wheat and tares “to joy or sorrow grown.” That's when Eko slips close by, first to listen, then to join his bass with her alto.

Rose gives Eko the melody as she veers off into a harmonization which shivers Claire to the core. Sawyer looks up from his book. He obviously knows the song, because his silent lips mouth the words as his eyes shine wet. At the part about God coming to take the harvest home, Claire's own eyes sting with tears. Never has she missed Aunt Lindsey so much, and even Mum, lying contracted and doll-like on her water-bed.

When Rose and Eko stop, no one claps or says anything. After a few heartbeats, Eko goes back to his carpentry, and Bernard embraces his wife.

“Well, smack me with a chainsaw,” Shannon says. “Look at the calendar.”

Rose has carefully updated it, as she does every morning. Claire reads, “Thursday, November 25, 2004. So?”

“Silly rabbit. It's Thanksgiving Day.”

A big Yank holiday, right. Before Claire can answer, Rose looms over them. The music must have moved Shannon, too, because she doesn't even snap about somebody blocking her light.

“Ladies,” Rose says, “I have an idea. But it's gonna require a shopping trip to the Swan Station.”

Shannon leaps to her feet. “If I'm not shopping, check my pulse, because I'm dead.”

* * * * * * * *

At the Swan Station, Hurley hovers around the computer room, where Sayid has removed so many floor panels that it's difficult to walk. Tables stretched end to end are covered with blueprints, schematics, and handwritten notes. It's time to enter the code, but instead of a blaring klaxon, an LED display spells out, “Sending” as Sayid's circuit does its silent work. When the manual counter resets to zero, the display reads, “Received.” The computer terminal sits inert under its black dust cover.

Hurley drifts through the living room, where Charlie has put on a record and walled himself off behind headphones. He strums along on his guitar, humming to himself, then writes something down in a notebook before picking up the guitar once more. 

In the laundry room, Kate lies on the floor beside the washing machine. “Hi, Hurley.”

“Looks like you got your hands full.”

Kate gropes around for a tool, not finding it. “This pump finally gave up the ghost. Luckily we have a spare.” 

“Hey there, Hurley,” says Jack.

Hurley feels useless as a bump on a log. “Just making the rounds.”

She reaches towards Jack, saying, “Hand me a crescent wrench, okay?”

He rummages in the wheeled tool cabinet. “Which one's that again?”

“What, you don't know what a crescent wrench is? Don't make me get up and show you.”

Hurley's about to step in to help, but the close, intimate air around these two holds him back. The way Kate drew out the last sentence, well, that could definitely have more than one meaning.

“It's the adjustable one,” Kate says. “Should be in the second drawer down.”

“The one with the little wheelie-thing in the head, right?”

“That's it.”

Jack hands her the tool. “So where did you learn appliance repair?”

Kate's face is smeared with dust and machine grease, but her eyes are shining. “Farmers who don't learn how to fix things become ex-farmers. That goes for their kids, too.” 

Hands deep in washing machine innards, Kate makes a few small, frustrated noises. It's time for Hurley to go.

He winds his way back to the computer room past the food pantry. For the first time since the crash, he's pricked by the ghost of old habits. He almost goes in to grab a snack, but stops himself. 

With a sigh, he rejoins Sayid. “Where's Desmondo, by the way?”

Sayid leafs through a ring binder without looking up. “He took the shotgun and went out with Locke and Boone. Just as well. I am as sad as anyone that he has been separated from his girlfriend. Nonetheless—“

“It's awesome that he's getting out more now.”

“It was quite a blow when he discovered that his yacht was lost for good.”

“Yeah, that sucked. Kind of weird, that he winds up on the Island with the same chick who gave him the boat in the first place.”

Sayid just keeps flipping pages, unimpressed by coincidence. Numbers are what interest Sayid, and facts. Outcomes. Results. He's tried to explain to Hurley how electronic circuits work, about the ones and zeroes, offs and ons, ands and ors. That was when Hurley's head started to hurt.

Hurley, on the other hand, does believe in coincidence, in fate, in luck, even if you make your own. 

Desmond went white with shock when he first met Libby, although he got over it quickly enough. Maybe it was because he finally ran out of alcohol, but he even went with her to look for the shoreline where he thought he ran aground.

They found the boat all right, or what was left of her. A bit of the main sail was still wedged between a pair of boulders. On jagged rocks lashed by harsh waves, they could see a few scraps of bright yellow hazmat suit. That was all that was left of Desmond's one-time station mate, Kelvin.

At least Desmond and Libby managed to recover the raft, which now lies snugly fastened at the beach camp, much to Jin's delight. He takes it out almost every day to fish.

When Desmond got back to the Swan, he sat practically unmoving for days. Sometimes Libby would talk to him in her calm shrink voice, and other times she'd just give him space. She finally pried out of him that he wasn't just missing Penny, or that without the Elizabeth there was no apparent way for him to get home. He also kept babbling about how Kelvin had something called “the fail safe.” 

That got Sayid's attention. 

Sayid raises his eyes from the page. “There is something you could do for me, Hurley.”

“Sure, shoot.”

“Do you see that stack of binders over there? Unfortunately they have neither table of contents nor index. I'd like you to go over each page, starting at the beginning, looking for any pages which says 'Fail safe.'”

“Dude, I wouldn't know what I was looking for.”

“You don't have to identify circuitry, just the words. Put a placeholder in whatever you find. I'm going down below.”

Sayid lowers himself through one of the floor openings while Hurley scans one incomprehensible page after another. What the hell is a “fail safe” anyway? All Desmond knows is that Kelvin had a key for a device below the computer room floor. Some kind of switch, to be used only if the code couldn't be entered into the computer. All Kelvin had told him was, “Turn the key, and this all goes away.”

The key is gone, though, out to sea with whatever remained of Kelvin's body.

It's too much for Hurley to puzzle out. After a few more pages, his eyes droop as he leans back in the office chair, thinking about Claire, her open face and clever hands, blue eyes and tender breasts. Kicking himself for being afraid to pop the question, because he doesn't know what he'll do if she says no. 

Away he drifts, until her sweet voice speaks to him through a veil of dream. He jerks so hard that the binder falls to the floor and springs open, scattering circuit diagrams everywhere. It's no dream, she's really here, calling out, “Hurley? Sayid? Anyone?” 

“Stop!” he shouts. All he can think of is her falling through one of the many open panels. When she peeks her head into the computer room door, he follows with, “Don't come in!”

Behind her crowd Rose and Shannon, as well as a half-dozen other people. Sayid pops his head up from one of the floor openings, like a mole ready to get whacked.

Claire pulls Hurley towards her. “There you are.” From around a corner, Jack and Kate appear. As they hasten, a tousled Kate rolls up the sleeves of a clean shirt that looks like one of Jack's. 

Charlie removes the headphones and blinks at everyone. “What're you about, sneaking up on me like that?”

“What's the occasion?” Jack says, rubbing his face as if he's had a nap of his own.

“You'll see,” Claire answers in a voice full of mischief. “To the pantry, everyone. It was Rose's idea.”

Some of the supplies have disappeared from the food pantry since the Swan opened up, but there's still a lot left. Hurley and Claire pass items hand over hand to the waiting people, who fill suitcases, backpacks, and wheeled bags. Rose sets aside a reserve for those staying in the Swan, but all the treats go: Apollo bars, cookies, stuffed olives, pancake syrup, smoked oysters, as well as most of the potted meat and chicken. 

Jack remarks, “This looks like a raid.” Kate has already fallen in with the crowd as she stuffs a pack with cans and boxes.

“It's Thanksgiving Day,” Rose says to him. “These are the makings of a feast.”

* * * * * * * *

The cooks work in shifts all the rest of the day and into the evening. Several of the men have hauled the ping-pong table to the beach, where it serves as a buffet. Charlie totes the box of paddles and balls, as well as his guitar.

Claire shadows Rose. Exhilaration fills her, even if it isn't strictly her holiday. From the way Hurley beams at her, maybe it will soon be hers, though. She can't worry about that now, though, as Sun spirits her away to chop yams, taro root, and jackfruit. 

Locke, Boone, and Desmond show up just as the food is laid out. They've been hunting in the bush all day with nothing to show for it, and Locke at first appears glum and stricken. He breaks into a rare smile when he sees the crowd, smells the food, senses the excitement and festivity. Even Boone softens, greeting Sayid with a handshake. Claire warms at this sign of a thaw between them, and when Boone kisses Shannon on the cheek, Claire's own cheeks shine with happiness.

Hurley says to Claire, “I convinced Desmond to let the ping-pong table stay down here. You play?”

“I'm not very good. My aunt would shellack me all the time.” 

Rose turns to shush them both, “Mr. Eko's about to say a few words.” It's oddly funny that Rose can't bring herself to call him “Father,” even though Hurley does.

Mr. Eko steps up onto a piece of fuselage. People have been so used to him laboring shirtless that it's almost shocking to see him in one of Hurley's t-shirts. He raises his hands for quiet, and keeps them elevated even when the crowd settles. 

Looking skyward, he says in his lilting accent, “Have mercy on me. Have mercy on all of us.” Then, as if some critical debt has been paid, he smiles broadly at the group. “Today is the American Thanksgiving. But while the holiday may have been born in one particular country, the act of giving thanks belongs to the world. We come here from all corners of that world. As for me, I believe this has happened for a reason.”

In the pause, Claire catches a glimpse of Locke's confirming smile.

“Each of us standing here has been handed the gift of our lives. Each of us has been given a second chance, a new beginning. A miracle brought us here. Perhaps it will take one to get us out. Either way, we have our lives. We have this food. And we have each other.”

As Eko says “Amen,” he makes the sign of the cross. Standing next to him, Charlie follows suit, as do Desmond and Hurley. Astonishingly, Ana Lucia crosses herself as well.

None of the Yanks seem to care that the spread is mostly non-traditional, although Rose has managed to turn yams and Dharmallows into a cinnamon-scented confection. Through something close to alchemy, Sirrah has transformed Dharma ranch dressing into a creamy curry sauce that brings crisp-fried Spam to life. For the first time since the crash, Claire tastes caramel, which goes down like liquid gold.

Even without wine or beer, the festivities grow louder, looser, more bacchanalian. After more than a few calls for music, Charlie gives in. As he tunes up, he says, “I used to busk in Piccadilly. So be sure to throw money, not tomatoes.”

Claire sits down to nurse Aaron, joined by Sun and Shannon. “You know who should be here?” Shannon says.

It takes a few seconds for Claire to puzzle it out. There's only one person missing, and all at once her absence yawns like a gulf. “Danielle, right?”

“What is that English phrase?” Sun says. “Speak of the demon?”

Shannon laughs. “Speak of the devil.”

“She is not a devil, but speaking of one right now—“

Danielle stands at the firelight's edge, half of her blazing in the flame's glow, the other half deep in shadow. She gazes at the crowd, as if hesitating to join in. As if maybe they've forgotten about her.

“Oh, my God.” Shannon waves and shouts, “Danielle, over here!”

Sun and Shannon draw Danielle over to where Claire is perched. Danielle beams at both her and the baby, her eyes soft. “He is so big since I saw him last.” 

“What have you been up to, girl?” Shannon says. “Never mind, you can tell all of us. We got some surprises for you, too. Let's go find Kathy and Shana, show you off.”

She and Sun disappear into the crowd, Danielle in tow. Sadness flicks across Claire, followed by a brief sense of being left out, of being tied down by Aaron. The baby doesn't want to get dragged around camp in the podegai any longer. He wants to stretch his limbs, get a proper sleep.

Charlie takes a request from Sawyer, then launches into “The Brand-New Tennessee Waltz.” Sawyer intercepts Danielle, takes her in his arms, and they begin to circle. To Claire it looks less like the rekindling of an old flame than a proper good-bye, made a bit absurd by the rifles slung over their shoulders.

Jack dances with Kate, more restrained than Sawyer and Danielle's flourish and bounce. Their quiet intensity points to deep fires within, and Kate's half-closed eyes radiate worship. A sword runs through Claire, and she crosses the crowd's circle to get to her tent, when Rose and Hurley waylay her. 

Rose reaches for Aaron. “Come here to Auntie Rose,” as Hurley takes Claire's hand and steers her into the cluster of dancers.

He puts his hand on her wrong shoulder, and bumps into her to boot. “I got two left feet, just to warn you.”

She couldn't care less. She isn't supposed to put her hand around his waist, either, but his flesh under her hand feels too good not to. “Just hold me.”

They stand like that, swaying. She clings to Hurley as she did the night she gave birth, resting her head on his soft upper belly, cocooned and safe in his big arms. All they have to do is follow each other in time: one-two-three, one-two-three, and it's enough.

That night, in their bed, Aaron drops off to the sounds of singing and the thumping of drums. When his soft breathing tells Claire that he's truly out, she rolls over to Hurley and covers her mouth with his.

In between kisses she whispers, “Make love to me.”

He knows what she means. Hundreds of kisses later they come in each others' arms, onto each others' fingers, sinking into surrender.

Neither of them want to sleep afterwards. As he takes her wet hand and rests it on his breast, something gathers in the air like a lighting strike. The only light comes from the stripes of firelight which sneak through the cracks. She doesn't have to see for him to fill her senses and her heart. 

She knows every hair on his chest, every mole, every swell and fold of flesh, every sweep of skin. Before he even speaks, she's sure of what's going to come out, because she feels it through the skin of her palms, in the walls of her veins.

Hurley's question lies between them, slick as their flesh, and there's only one answer. _Yes._

( _continued_ )

**(A/N: Lyrics are from “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come,” a nineteenth century English hymn.)**


	22. Fail-Safe

The Swan Station air conditioning is ready to die. The acrid smell of sweat stings Hurley's nose, and the box fans scattered around the rooms barely move the stagnant air.

Agile Charlie has found another way into the Swan, a hatch door at the top of a metal ladder. Opening it helps a little, even if rainfall collects at the bottom and adds to the wet-basement stench.

The word “Quarantine” stenciled across the inside bothered Jack, until Ana Lucia told him they found one like it on their own bunker. “Didn't matter worth a damn. Nobody got sick.”

Desmond just sulks when asked about it. Hurley suspects he was embarrassed over staying three years underground, thinking he was going to get Captain Trips. 

At least it's cool in the cave-like Swan. At the kitchen sink, Claire is giving Aaron a bath. Hurley would help, but Shannon and Sun have crowded him out. Even though Hurley wouldn't have figured Shannon for the baby-loving type, she coos and pinches Aaron's toes right along with the other two. Aaron is too little to splash, so the women do it for him.

Hurley leans back on the couch, warmth rising in his chest as he watches Claire at the sink. Laziness makes him feel a little guilty. Sayid's automatic number-entering circuit has pretty much unemployed everyone except Sayid himself. 

Jack, especially, who wanders around the Swan like a bird lost and off-course. When he peers over Sun's shoulder, the women part for him. He sets Aaron on the counter and looks him over carefully, inspecting ears, throat, skin. 

When the baby whimpers, Jack cuddles him to his chest, making those swaying motions which Hurley knows well. He's done them often enough himself. The baby nestles in.

Shannon pokes Claire. “Too bad Kate's not here to see this.”

That was the wrong thing to say. An embarrassed Jack quickly hands Aaron to Claire, then heads for the computer room. The women cluster around Aaron again, as if he's the center of their universe.

Which in a way he is.

Hurley lets his book drop from his hand. Not a lot on the shelves interests him. These books are like those he half-remembers from high school: boring and long-winded, that put you to sleep. Hurley would even take some Superman-universe reboots from the 'nineties, but that wasn't the taste of whoever stocked these shelves. 

Listening to music isn't much of an option either. Charlie has monopolized the old-school record player, and sorts through vinyl albums, playing one, listening for only a few minutes, then swapping it out for another. 

Hurley finally complains. “Dude, can't we listen to one record all the way through?”

Before Charlie can answer, Claire appears. “The gals and I are headed back to the beach.”

“Just the three of you?” Jack says with a frown. “I'll go along.”

Shannon tugs at the baby's foot. “Well, we do have Aaron. You're a big tough guy, aren't you? You'll keep us helpless women-folk safe.”

“Think I'll hang here for awhile, finish the laundry,” Hurley says. 

Claire beams. “I'll get supper on, then.”

Hurley stays for another reason, too. Charlie has been dogging him for days, looking like he has something to say. He's never talked about his time in the bush with Locke and Boone, and Hurley's curious. 

When Hurley kisses Claire goodbye, he notices the flash of pain which crosses Charlie's face. It can't be helped, though.

Beneath the computer room floor panels, Sayid excavates like a mole. Occasionally he pokes his head up and asks Desmond for a tool or schematic. Desmond lifts his head from whatever book he's buried in and grudgingly hands it over.

Sayid talks to himself as he works. When the Swan computer times out, there's no more clanging alarm, and the electronics do their work in silence. The manual counter resets to 108 with the flutter of shuffling cards. 

Even though Charlie's DJ attempts annoy Hurley, one thing's improved. When Charlie first returned with Locke and Boone, he seemed like a shattered windshield ready to explode into fragments. Now he's calm and relaxed, almost happy. He's not even blathering about his band anymore. 

Charlie leans in confidentially to Hurley. “That new arrival, she's a looker, eh?”

Who? Cindy is nice but plain as whole wheat bread. Ana Lucia? Hurley has checked out her well-shaped rear end more than once, even if _The Fast and the Furious_ look scares him. Neither seem like Charlie's type, though.

That leaves only one possibility. “You mean Libby?”

“In a kind of rawwrrr-cougar fashion. But I was never one for age discrimination.”

Libby doesn't bore holes in Hurley anymore, when she thinks he isn't looking. Still, she seems familiar. While LA is a big city, who knows? Maybe she came into Mr. Cluck's, or had her car worked on at Uncle Emil's garage. Hurley knows he's distinctive: his size, his hair, his gut. People who see him never manage to un-see him, which is why he could never get away with messing around in school. No way could he melt into the crowd like the other kids did.

Charlie's still rattling on. “...I'm assuming you already knew, since everybody on this bloody beach does, but I was a user. A druggie. Got clean since the crash, though. I thought maybe I could get a fresh start with someone new—”

Hoo boy, this is complicated. Claire has told Hurley about Libby and Ana Lucia being a couple. Trouble is, they set up separate tents after all. Their three shelters form a little nucleus of their own, Libby in one, Ana Lucia in another, and a third for Cindy and the kids. If they're not “out” to the beach, Hurley doesn't want to blab. He hates secrets, and knows how bad he is at keeping them.

He tries to stall. “Um, Charlie, those Tailies have been through a lot. Maybe give them a little more time to settle in—“

Charlie's interruption stops Hurley dead. “How bloody dense are you, mate?”

Hurley tries to keep his voice even. “I dunno, Charlie. How dense am I?”

"All I'm trying to tell you is, I know about being obsessed with a bird. Sometimes a bloke just has to admit she's found another nest. And that there's a whole forest more of them.”

So that's it. “Sure, man. No harm, no foul.” Hurley senses this isn't what's really on Charlie's mind, though. Just the dress-rehearsal, as Claire would say. 

He tries a diversion. “So, um, besides finding the Swan Station, did you guys run into any cool beaches or anything?” 

Charlie pauses, as if debating how much to tell. When he does speak, it's low and quiet, so that Sayid and Desmond can't hear. “On the first night, Boone and Locke... Well, let's just say things got a bit kinky.”

Now Hurley wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. “Um... kinky?” What in the hell did Charlie step into?

“Locke made up this vile brew and wanted us to drink it, for some tribal manhood ritual. Boone gulped it right down, but I told Locke to sod off, that my manhood was just peachy, thanks for asking. Like I said, man, I'm clean now. Why would I bollocks that up by drinking Locke's joy juice? I grabbed my gear and got a quarter klick away before remembering I hadn't a sodding clue how to find the beach.

“When I got back to Locke's camp, Boone was tied to a tree like a contortionist. I apologized for interrupting a touching personal moment, but Locke blatted on that I had the wrong idea, that this was all for Boone's 'personal development.'”

“He really said that?” Hurley desperately needs a few seconds to process this. 

“Said that if I knew what was good for me, I'd do the same.”

“Holy crap.”

“'No bloody way,' I told him. I pitched my tent out of earshot, knife at the ready in case he decided to hijack me for a magical mystery tour anyway. The next morning, neither of them acted like a damn thing had happened. A few days later we found this bunker, and you know the rest.”

“Man, I had no idea.” Hurley thinks back to the first week on the Island, when Claire got heat-sick. How his own flesh had crawled when Locke offered to take him into the jungle to look for water. No wonder Charlie has been avoiding Locke since they got back.

Charlie's still talking, so Hurley tunes in again. “...Not to mention that I got bloody sick of being ordered about by Old Baldy. When to go, when to stay, like I was a sodding twelve year old.”

“Boone doesn't seem to mind.”

“Don't get me going on Boone,” Charlie starts, when Sayid bursts into the room. Desmond trails behind, looking more despondent than ever.

Sayid is practically dancing up and down. “I've found the fail-safe circuit. We don't need a key after all. I can bypass it.”

“We're all going to die,” Desmond says. “If we haven't already.”

At that, Hurley gives Desmond a quick side-eye. Maybe Desmond needs some more Libby shrink-attention.

Suddenly weary, Hurley leaves Sayid to his electronics, Charlie to his records, and heads into the depths of the Swan. He passes the now-empty food pantry with a sigh, then pulls his and Claire's laundry out of the dryer. Lint from the baby's diapers covers everything, and he methodically begins to pick it off.

* * * * * * * *

Claire has wrapped fish with spices and shredded coconut, then baked them in leaves. Hurley has just tossed the leaf-wrappers into the fire and is licking his fingers when heated discussion rises from Jack and Kate's tent. Sayid and Desmond are exercised about something, apparently.

“Let's check it out,” Hurley says as Claire ties the baby into his sling.

Kate nods for Hurley and Claire to sit. 

“So let me get this straight,” Jack says to Sayid. “This whole system in the Swan Station is like what, a capacitor?”

A capacitor? All Hurley can think of is a car sound system. But that can't be it.

“That's right,” says Sayid. “Charge from the electromagnetic energy deep underneath the Swan's core builds up over time. Some of this energy powers the geothermal reactor, but nowhere near all. The core structure can only absorb so much energy, and it has to be periodically released.”

“Or else what?” Jack says.

“I already bloody told you,” Desmond breaks in. “When it's not controlled, it creates gigantic EMP spikes. Like the one that crashed your plane.”

“EMP?” Claire asks.

“An electro-magnetic pulse,” Sayid says. “Of the kind that is released in a nuclear bomb.”

“What?” Kate says. “You mean we're sitting on an atomic bomb?”

Sayid sighs. “In a sense.”

Some comfort. Hurley and Claire exchange scared glances, then both look at the baby, busy at the breast. 

“That's what I keep telling you,” says Desmond. “That's why there's a fail-safe. In case the system were to break down, there's a way to shut it all off. 'Make it all go away,' as Kelvin said.”

Uh, oh, Jack's pulled out his warm doctor voice. Hurley knows what that means. “Desmond, I know that after our plane crashed, things were bad for you down there. Why didn't you just use it then? Give yourself a way out?”

Desmond doesn't answer, and no one but Hurley seems to notice the tears at the corners of his eyes. Hurley has seen that at the hospital, usually right before somebody threw a chair or hit themselves with their fist. Santa Rosa was a community, the nurses always said. If someone was in trouble, call for help.

Jack's a good guy, the best. But sometimes his bedside manner really sucks. Hurley says to Jack, “Maybe Desmond thought it would be too dangerous to use. I mean, what if it like blew up the Island?”

Sayid clearly doesn't think so. “I have been poring over these circuit diagrams for days. I am convinced that whoever designed this system not only did a good job, but was fundamentally rational. There's no point in building a fail-safe which annihilates everything.”

“That's right,” Kate says. “Fail-safes are supposed to keep disaster from happening, not cause it—“

Desmond interrupts. “If the designer was so rational, why did he blow his brains out? You saw it yourself, right there on the Swan ceiling.”

Hurley shudders. All this time, he thought that stain was just water damage from a rusty pipe.

“Did he?” Sayid says in silky tones. “Your friend Kelvin was CIA. It wouldn't be the first time they lied. Perhaps Radzinsky didn't pull the trigger himself.”

Desmond doesn't say anything. It's clear this hasn't occurred to him.

“What I don't understand is this,” says Jack. “The Swan has been around since, when, the 1970s? There had to be various teams working there over the years. Why didn't someone just set off the fail-safe earlier?”

Sayid looks glad to be asked, as he rummages through his backpack. “To do so would would also probably de-activate the geothermal power source.” He pulls out a well-worn diagram and spreads it before the fire. “I only found this yesterday.”

Hurley cranes in closer. “What's that?” 

“A diagram of Island power distribution. Notice all the high-voltage cables which lead outward from it. They even travel to that northern settlement, the Barracks. Interestingly, no power cables seem to go to Goodwin's Temple.” 

Sayid rests back on his heels as if in triumph. “My conclusion is that they became dependent upon the Swan. Setting off the fail-safe would destroy their power supply.”

“Ours, too,” says Jack. “I like a hot shower and shave.”

“You and forty other people, brother,” Desmond says in a disgusted voice. “Your little circuit is fine, Sayid, but when the ventilation or the water pump fail, electricity won't do any good. Those we can't fix.” 

“We did fine without electricity before the Swan,” Claire points out.

Jack says, “You're sure, Sayid, that this won't cause a disaster.” He waves around at the beach camp, people at their peaceful fires, the new night sky purple overhead. “Lives depend on it.”

“I'm sure of it. I believe in design, in the rationality of design.”

Something else occurs to Hurley. “You know, guys, we might not need power to live. But what about those dudes up at the Barracks? This is gonna get their attention, fast.”

“They didn't seem to care when their audiovisual feed was cut off,” says Kate. 

Sayid drinks in her words, then launches himself to his feet. “Of course! Why didn't I think of it before? Jack, hold on to this woman, and don't let her go. She's invaluable.” 

He grabs Kate's hand and gives it an audible kiss. Astonished, she lets him. Sayid goes on, “I spent so much time worrying about a signal fire, while all along we are sitting on an EMP generator.”

Just as Hurley thinks that maybe Sayid has gone off the deep end, Jack says, “This fail-safe, if it goes off, it's going to release a huge amount of energy.”

“An EMP burst, yes,” Sayid says, breathless with excitement. 

“Which means—“

“That's right—“

The two of them look at one another, sharing silent understanding.

Kate cuts through the moment with her sharp voice. “Would someone please tell me what's going on?” 

Sayid says, “There are listening stations all over the Pacific.”

“I know there are in central Australia,” says Claire. “My mum protested them when she was in college.”

“Not all of them are for spying, Claire,” Sayid says. “Some are used to detect nuclear explosions.”

“Like a giant signal fire,” Desmond muses, downcast.

“Exactly.”

Kate clutches Jack's arm. “Oh, my God, Jack. Someone will see it. We'll get rescued.”

Hurley knows why Desmond is pulling that long face. “Um, guys, did none of you see _Independence Day_? Because the dude that blew up the mother-ship was, um, a sacrifice. Who's gonna set this fail-safe off?”

Jack laugh stings Hurley at first. Then he sees that Jack isn't laughing at him, but from pure delight. “Hurley, have you ever set off dynamite?”

“Nope.”

Kate's laughing now, too. “I have. My dad took me out to our fields to clear stumps. It was fun.”

Jack's on a roll now. “You don't light a stick of dynamite and let it blow up in your face.”

Once again, Sayid tunes in to Jack's wavelength. “Of course not. You light a fuse.” Again, electric inspiration seems to shoot through him. 

Hurley gets it, too. It feels good not to be out of the loop, to be able to keep up for once. “Like your circuit for entering the numbers. It does it, so we don't have to. You could make something remote, set the fail-safe off.”

“Remote?” Kate says. “How?”

Sayid smacks himself on the forehead. “Why didn't I think of this sooner? The pilot's phone. I could rig it to call in a remote signal, activate the fail-safe that way.”

Hurley's glad that nobody razzes Sayid anymore about blowing up Oceanic 815. But from the silence which surrounds Sayid sometimes, it's clear that he's done things during the war, terrible things that he doesn't talk about. Even so, all that knowledge has come together, built up to this point. Whatever Sayid has done in Iraq could well get them rescued.

Jack is still calculating, though. “You don't really know what the radius of this 'event' would be, do you?”

Sayid shakes his head.

“A mile? Two?” Jack persists.

Kate says, “Our camp is about a mile and a half from the Swan. That doesn't seem very far.”

“I agree,” Jack says. “The caves won't be, either. And we don't want all our people concentrated in a place that could come down on their heads.”

Sayid's eyes light up. “The second day we were here, I set out to find the source of the radio signal.”

“That didn't work out too well for you, dude,” Hurley points out.

“True. But now we have someone with us who knows exactly where to go.”

Everyone's glance swings across the beach to where Rousseau sits in front of Sawyer's tent. Both are cleaning their rifles, and from the look of it, their talk is friendly. Not like lovers, though, Hurley notices. Not anymore.

* * * * * * * *

That night, even after Aaron settles down, neither Hurley nor Claire can sleep. They hold onto each other in the dark, where Hurley snuggles her close against his chest. 

She nestles into his arm and whispers, “This could really happen, couldn't it?”

He murmurs something reassuring, all the while thinking of a photograph in the Swan Station, a garishly-colored landscape of Joshua Tree National Forest. It would be awesome to take Claire there, baby Aaron strapped into a car-seat, the desert winds blowing hot and clean through lowered windows. 

Scary, too. Everything he ran away from in Los Angeles will still be there when he gets back. The fight with his dad. His parents kissing and cooing like teenagers. His mom's pity. Not to mention the fallout of a return from the dead. What to do with all that money, now that he has a reason to care.

Then there's getting married, with all that means. He strokes Claire's hair, runs his fingers over her soft cheek, his heart surging at her small, happy sigh.

For all these weeks he hasn't wanted to think about rescue, for fear of disappointment. Of disappointing her. 

Sure, there are Others out there, maybe ready to pounce on them. But the thing in the trees has been quiet for a long time, and the Others haven't appeared. LA spreads out in Hurley's mind, no longer a boring place to escape from, but somewhere full of wonder and possibility, especially if he can see it through Claire's eyes.

( _continued_ )


	23. Candle in the Wind

In the grueling week which follows, the survivors file between the Swan Station and the beach like ants in a line. They bring back to their camp everything they can carry. 

“What's the point?” the grumpy man named Leslie says. “Who needs all this junk if we're going to get rescued anyway?”

“I can't guarantee that.” Jack has said this to multiple people dozens of times this week. Fatigue and irritation line his face. 

“Look, Leslie,” Kate says. “Take some of the wire shelves for your insect collection.”

That shuts Leslie Arzt up, at least for the time being.

Because of the baby, Claire stays behind with Rose and a few of the older people, but there's no rest for them either. They collect wood, scavenge for fruits and vegetables, and dry fish on bamboo racks. They cook gallons of porridge and stew, because no one else has time to forage.

Sawyer carries armloads of Swan books in bundles tied with twine. Michael makes one travois after another, for easier dragging. Zach and Walt tie a little cardboard cart to Vincent, then laugh when the dog bolts and everything inside bounces onto the path. Emma rolls her eyes, then files behind Cindy and Libby for yet another trip.

The castaways wear the ground flat beneath their feet. The bare trail looks as if they have been pacing along that path for years.

Claire watches Hurley leave each morning, then at night spoons out fish stew for him as he collapses, ravenous and exhausted, in front of their fire. She salves his sore hands with aloe and rubs his aching shoulders until he sinks into fitful sleep.

Something's troubling him, she's sure of it. At night he buries himself in her arms as if it's the only safe place on the Island, and shivers a little as she strokes his hair. Even though she asks, he won't tell her what's going on.

Finally, one blazing morning, Jack declares that they're done. Hurley just shakes his head, _Nope, not yet._

The beach camp looks like the world's largest jumble sale. What more could they possibly bring from the Swan? 

More than that, Claire's tired of Hurley's evasions. She pulls him aside and her whisper is harsh. “I'm fed up, Hurley. What's crawled up your tail-pipe and built a nest?”

Over by the skeleton of the fuselage, Jack and Kate strap on their packs. Sayid and Shannon haven't been seen all week, with Sayid working full-time in the Swan Station, building what's needed to set off the fail-safe remotely. Full of serious caution, Ana Lucia gives orders to Cindy and Libby, before joining Jack and Kate.

Jack beckons to Hurley to come along, but Claire stomps her foot so hard that sand puffs up under her trainer. “Oh, no, you don't. Not till you tell me what the hell is going on.”

Hurley sighs like a great bellows, then waves for Jack to wait. “Maybe you better come with and see. Maybe it'll make a difference.”

“See what?”

He's about to answer when Jack calls out, “Hurley, you ready?”

“Please, Claire,” Hurley says. “It's complicated. I'm not sure if we're doing the right thing.”

At the sight of his sad, sweet face, her anger fades. “Of course I'll come along. Let me change Aaron first.”

* * * * * * * *

Claire's nose wrinkles at the locker-room smell of the Swan Station. People's footsteps echo across the rooms, bare now save for some couches, computers, and the washer-dryer set.

Shannon sees Claire's grimace. “I know, it's awful. Sayid and I have been sleeping outside in a tent. I don't know how Desmond can stand it.”

Jack, Kate, and Ana Lucia talk quietly, out of earshot. When Locke and Boone walk in, Shannon folds her arms, frowning. Boone breezes by her without speaking. Sayid emerges from the computer room and gives Shannon a protective squeeze, then goes back to his electronics. 

To Claire, it feels like a meeting is about to happen, one that no one really wants. Then she sees the open door, the one that's always been closed every time she has visited the Swan. She squints into the darkened closet, trying to identify the glinting, shadowy objects which line the walls.

“Told you we had a problem,” Hurley says in a glum voice. “And it's my fault.”

Oh, good God, not that again. “Hurley—“ Then she stops short. She's never seen so many guns in her life, not even on the station where her grandfather raised sheep.

“All right!” Ana Lucia's barking tone makes Claire jump. “Time to get started. Jack, you got the list?” 

“Right here, Ana.” 

She studies the slip of paper for a few seconds, lips moving as she reads. “Bernard? Really?”

“He took trophies in trap and skeet,” Kate says. “Even if Rose almost didn't let me write his name down.”

“And she wouldn't have, if you hadn't twisted her arm,” Hurley mumbles.

“You got a complaint, Hugo?” says Ana Lucia. “After all, this was your idea.”

“Your idea?” Claire says sharply. “What idea?”

Ana Lucia can't keep the triumph out of her voice. “What, you didn't tell your girlfriend?”

Jack says, “Ana, just because Hurley brought it up, doesn't mean that we didn't all—“

“I never agreed to this, Jack,” Locke interrupts. “I wanted to secure the firearms. Keep them on a strict need-to-know basis, rather than upset a lot of our people. As it clearly has.” 

“You think I'm upset because there are guns?” At the shriek in Claire's voice, Aaron starts to cry. 

Hurley holds out his hands for the baby. “Here, let me—” 

“No!” This only makes Aaron cry louder. “Oh, bother, don't you see? You're, you're... part of the problem!” 

He winces as if she'd slapped him, which in a way she has. She starts to cry along with the baby.

Kate snaps into action. “Come on, you two. Lucky this sofa was too big to move.” She pulls Claire and Hurley along as if they were toddlers, and plunks them down on either side of her. “So, no kidding?” Kate says to Claire, as if the outburst never happened. “You grew up hunting? I tracked elk in Montana with my dad.”

Putting Aaron on the breast quiets him at once, and Claire sniffles a little before speaking. “I was twelve when Gramps put a rifle in my hand. Wild dogs were killing the lambs. Mum and I helped him for years.”

“Maybe you should have one of the rifles, then. As for you, Hurley, sounds like you have some explaining to do.” 

Before he can speak, Kate slips over to Jack, where Ana Lucia still pores over the list.

Hurley can't look at her. “Sorry, Claire, it was kind of a mess. I didn't want to upset you.”

He goes on to tell her how at the beginning of the week, Desmond opened the armory, revealing the cache inside. How Jack and Sayid stopped Locke and Boone from nicking the firearms. 

“I kind of broke the lock,” Hurley says. “So that nobody could change the combination and hog them. Jack didn't want to spread them around at first. I just thought that if everybody who could use one had one, we'd have you know, like guards or something, when we all evac'd to the radio tower.”

“Hurley, that makes so much sense. Why wouldn't you tell me?”

“It just seemed... Let's put it this way. My mom would have blown a gasket over all these guns. She was always worried about us. Diego and me.” 

He hangs his big head until she chucks him under the chin. “Sorry I yelled.” She has to fight the smile which bubbles up inside, because his eyes are still sad, and she doesn't want to hurt his feelings. 

“I just didn't want Locke keeping everything a secret. But then I kept one.”

Across the room, Jack, Kate, and Ana Lucia are still debating over who gets what weapons. Now Claire notices the broken combination lock, the splintered wood. Hurley must have used a hammer, with a lot of force.

No one is paying them any attention, so Claire pulls Hurley in close. “Look, you want to get married, right?”

He nods, all warm and open now. “More than anything.”

“No secrets, then. Something like this happens, if something worries you or makes you feel down, just tell me. Even if I yell a bit, I'll get over it.”

His head falls onto her shoulder, and his answer sends a warm shiver through her. “Thanks, Claire.”

He doesn't move away, so she holds him, full of relief as she breathes in the wood-smoke fragrance of his hair. Ana Lucia glances over at them, and her stern face softens into a smile.

* * * * * * * *

The next morning, Claire and Shannon pack while Sayid gathers Scott, Steve, and Bernard around him. They have volunteered to stay behind. 

Desmond says to Sayid, “I wouldn't ask you to do something that I wouldn't, brother. Count me in for the duration.”

“Thanks,” Sayid says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Mr. Eko, who has tirelessly hauled furniture and crates from the Swan all week, once more picks up his saw and ax. “I will finish raising the church frame.”

“I'll help you,” Charlie says. “If nobody else needs me, that is.”

Handing Charlie the ax, Mr. Eko says, “Cut as many palm fronds as you can, and we will thatch the roof.”

“Father Eko, are you sure you don't want to come with us?” says Claire.

Mr. Eko smiles like someone listening to a song playing deep inside of him. “I have consecrated the church grounds. No harm will come to them.” He gazes at Aaron, tenderness pouring from his rough face. “Would you permit me to give the baby a blessing?”

“May I have one, too?” she says in a small voice.

He lays one hand on Aaron's head, and another on hers. She can't tell whether he mutters in Latin or his own native language, yet it warms her, and she feels a little less anxious.

What surprises Claire is that Rose insists on remaining with Bernard.

Jack objects. “It could be dangerous, Rose.”

“You didn't tell Sayid that.”

Bernard starts to polish the shotgun's walnut stock, humming a little to himself.

Rose goes on, “I've been separated from my husband for almost two months, Jack, and I don't want to repeat that. More so, I'm living on borrowed time. Me and Bernard, we see eye to eye on this. If we die, we die.”

Shannon looks up. “Die? What's she talking about, Sayid?”

He smiles as he lifts her suitcase to test the weight. “No one is going to die, Shannon, at least not today. Look, it's less than a day's walk to the radio tower, and only one overnight. Must you take so much?”

“It's got wheels. Anyway, if Rose can stay, why can't I?”

Sayid has to work hard to resist her pout. “We have been over this, Shannon. I don't anticipate a problem, but I want you out of range anyway.” When she pouts again, Sayid melts. “Look, after we 'light the candle,' I'll speed up to the radio tower myself.”

“But that'll take hours.”

“I can maneuver more quickly in the jungle than this multitude.” When he smiles, it's Shannon's turn to soften. “Keep the sleeping bag warm for me.”

Only Claire notices Boone's glare as he follows the couple with his eyes, until they disappear into the jungle.

* * * * * * * *

The march up to the radio tower passes in a blur of green and gold. Never has Claire seen rain-forest like this, not even during her school holiday in Daintree, up in north Queensland. Soaring trees arch together like fingers, but can't hold the liquid light which spills between them. 

Claire would like to cling to Hurley's hand as they traipse along, but he's on patrol. He has refused a gun, so Kate has given him the binoculars that she filched from the Swan. He sweeps the horizon back and forth with keen, patient vision, while those with weapons flank the walkers on either side.

The landscape appeals less and less to Claire as they climb. Up they head, always uphill, until the land spreads out before them in a flat, high mesa. Nestling on the beach hasn't prepared the survivors for the vast expanse of green land, for the enormous clouds which slide across the china-blue sky.

The radio tower sticks out like an ugly intrusion. Footsore, short of breath, everyone gathers at the base as Jack, Kate, and Danielle disappear into the radio tower's control room.

Claire plops down next to Shannon and Cindy, while the children run about. In calm tones Cindy shows the children the “High Voltage” sign, and tells them that they are to stay away from the ladder.

Michael stops by. “You're good with them, Cindy, especially Walt. He snaps right to, no backtalk.”

Cindy gives him a cool, professional smile. “Children want our approval, in general. Not like aggro business types or drunken rugger teams spoiling for a fight. In my line of work, though, you learn to handle them all. The kids are a welcome relief.”

Claire lays Aaron down in the afternoon sun, where he wiggles his limbs and coos in the warm air. “Who do you suppose built that thing?” she says to Shannon, stretched out like a cat on her blanket.

“Army, probably. Who knows?”

“The Yank army, you mean,” Cindy remarks. She keeps one firm eye fixed on the three children, who still sneak longing looks at the radio tower.

Claire cranes her neck upwards. She knows that radio signals are invisible, yet in her mind they roll through the air like waves. One such current brought Hurley to their doomed flight, to this place, to her. 

Hurley wants her to live with him in his parents' house in Los Angeles, at least until the lawyer sorts out the paperwork they'll need to marry. It's a big house, or so he's said. They can have a whole floor if they want.

She still can't reconcile his easy-going Yank slang, his worn board-shorts, his comfortable body with hundreds of millions of dollars. She's no stranger to strong mother figures, though. More than once, Claire has asked, _Will she like me?_

Each time the answer has been the same. _She's gonna_ love _you._

Over where jungle meets grassland, Hurley and Sawyer stand at look-out, telling jokes and stories like two mates at Gramp's station guarding the flock. Then Sawyer must hear something, because he unshoulders his rifle and gestures for Hurley to stay put.

At once Claire pulls Aaron to her chest, heart pounding. When Sawyer steps back into the light, he shakes his head. False alarm, apparently. 

Danielle is the first to emerge from the radio tower base, followed by Kate and Jack. Claire and other survivors gather around them.

“What do you think?” Jack says to Danielle and Kate.

“The backup batteries are useless,” Danielle says. “Once the power is cut off, there will be no more signals.”

“With all respect, Danielle, you broadcast one for sixteen years.” Jack's tone says, _And look what good it did you._

Kate frowns. “I thought the whole point was to send a message that couldn't be ignored.”

Jack takes a few thoughtful breaths. “Okay, let's do this.” He pulls out a flare gun, but doesn't fire right away. “Everybody, over here.”

The group assembles, even Locke, who's among the last to amble up. He stands with arms folded, as if anticipating failure. Hurley helps Claire tie Aaron into the baby-sling, which distracts her from Locke's smirk.

Jack says, “I'm going to send Sayid the signal. Since we don't know exactly what's going to happen, I think everyone should get into a crouching position, cover your heads.”

“Make like a turtle,” Brian says. “Duck and cover.”

“You poser,” says Kenneth with a laugh. “You're not old enough to remember that.”

“The hell I'm not.”

Jack fights a chuckle. As Claire forms a little cluster with Aaron and Shannon, Hurley shelters all of them with his body. Cindy, Libby, and Ana do the same with Michael and all the children. 

Head down, Claire doesn't see the flare go off, only hears the bang of the gun, the whizz of the rocket as it soars skyward. She peeks out just as it blossoms red as a New Year's Eve firework.

Hurley is shaking, maybe from anxiety, or from the strain of holding a crouch so long, so she rubs his back in long, comforting strokes. The whole plateau is silent except for the whoosh of light wind and Jack's faint, exasperated sigh.

She understands his worry. Maybe Sayid's plan hasn't worked, after all. Maybe they really are stuck here for good. Maybe—

Something stabs Claire with sound, as if billions of air molecules all decided to scream at once. Hurley falls over, hands clamped to his ears, thrashing to and fro. Against Claire's breast Aaron shrieks, flailing his head back and forth. Claire barely notices the stabbing in her own head, because all she can think is, _Stop, stop, you're going to kill my baby._ Rage forces her to her knees. Nothing is worth this, not if anything happens to Aaron.

Above her, the roiling sky has turned purple, the color of grape juice dumped into a glass of soured milk.

All at once the shrieking air falls silent. Claire rubs her ringing ears as Aaron whimpers. Automatically she puts him on the breast. As of one mind, she and Hurley scrutinize the baby, who suckles busily as if nothing has happened. 

Everyone else has pulled themselves to their feet, rubbing their heads, touching their ears, murmuring, “What the hell was that?” “You think it's over?”

Along the ridge of trees which mark the horizon, a fat mushroom cloud rises up, the color of dusty smoke. 

“Oh, my God, you don't think that's radiation, do you?” Kate says, voice racked with fear.

“I don't think so,” Jack answers. “It's probably just dirt.”

“It could be radioactive dirt,” Brian adds. “That's what fallout is.”

As Jack gives him a _You're not helping_ scowl, something happens, astonishing and terrifying because it is so unexpected. The enormous dirt-cloud vanishes, sucked back into the earth by a gigantic vacuum. The sky clears, as if the explosion never was.

“What the hell?” Hurley mutters.

Locke still wears that smirk. “The Swan didn't just explode. Looks like it imploded, too.”

From the radio tower control room doorway, Danielle announces, “Everything inside is dead. I would say that Sayid's experiment worked.”

“It did work,” Locke repeats, as if he hadn't believed it would until this instant.

Their fate now rides on an invisible burst of energy hurtling away from the Island at light-speed. What happens next is entirely out of their hands.

No one cheers or grins, except for Locke. For the first time on this expedition, maybe even since first coming to the Island, he looks genuinely happy.

( _continued_ )

**(A/N: The title is borrowed from Elton John's song of the same name.)**


	24. The Watcher in the Woods

Hurley lies on his back under a star-strewn night, gazing at clouds as they pass over the face of the moon, but no sleep comes to him. Claire rests curled on one side of his chest, with the baby draped across the other, as if Hurley is the most comfortable mattress in the world. 

It's colder on the radio tower plateau than by the seaside, and the wind never stops. Claire has tucked a coarse Swan station blanket around herself and the baby, before collapsing in exhaustion from the long hike. The other blanket isn't enough to cushion Hurley's back from the hard ground, despite a layer of sedge grass. 

The trees are different, too, more like those in the Santa Monica Mountains outside LA, leafier and less jungle-like. The night birds won't shut up, either, and once in awhile Hurley swears that eyes gleam at them from the forest edge, red circles glinting in the firelight.

He misses his and Claire's snug tent. Their grass-stuffed mattress on a bamboo frame seems like the height of luxury, compared to this rough camp-out. When the baby's business end grows warm and wet against Hurley's t-shirt, he's had enough. Not like he's going to get any sleep anyway. He slides Aaron off first, then rolls Claire over his belly so that she lands next to the baby. She doesn't even stir.

He cocoons the two of them in a blanket, his legs and back creaking with stiffness. The fabric shines grey in the moonlight, and Claire's hair blows about in silver wisps. He's about to say to hell with it, to spoon her from behind even if it means lying on the bare ground, when swaths of golden light sweep the camp site.

It's Sayid and Scott, both carrying torches. Leaving Claire, Hurley joins them at the central campfire, and unpacks jackfruit slices and dried octopus while Sayid scans about for Shannon.

“She almost gave up on you, dude,” Hurley says. “She's over there, by the radio tower.”

In between bites of chewy octopus, Sayid remarks, “Navigating the jungle at night was more challenging than we thought.”

“It didn't help that we were followed for awhile,” Scott says.

“Followed?” Hurley says with a gulp.

“You didn't hear it from up here?” says Sayid.

“Hear what?” Even as Hurley speaks, his flesh creeps, and he knows.

“The _thing_ ,” Scott says. “We didn't see it, but we sure as hell heard it. Like a wrecked car being dragged over hot pavement.”

“We thought it would be prudent to take a detour,” says Sayid.

Over the weeks, everyone has stopped speaking of the dark shape in the woods. It's almost as if they've forgotten it, until now. Hurley sure as hell has.

The moon seems to mock them with its bright, unblinking eye. A few people stir, awakened by the torch-glow and the low-voiced conversation. 

Shannon approaches, hair all wild from sleep, her perfume strong in the night breeze. “I figured you had stood me up, Sayid. Even if I did keep the sleeping bag warm.”

Jack and Kate are up, too, with Kate wrapped in a blanket folded like a poncho. “Success, I see,” says Jack. “Everyone all right down at the beach? Any damage?”

“No one was harmed,” Sayid answers, pulling off a long string of octopus. “Minimal damage, a few tents down, a dent in the fuselage roof. I did fear for our eardrums for a time.”

“It was awful,” Kate says. “I can't imagine what it must have sounded like at close range.”

Jack springs into action. “Any bleeding, residual tinnitus?”

“Jack, we're fine,” Sayid says. 

The fire is burning down again, so Hurley feeds it. Dried wood is way harder to find up here on the plateau, and he hopes the last scarce branches will last till morning. Not that a camp-fire is going to scare away something that rips trees up, or men's guts apart.

“We should explore the Swan site tomorrow,” Sayid says. “Tonight, I had other priorities—“

“You sure do,” Shannon says.

“Including letting Jack know that everything went according to plan.” Sayid rises to his feet, his arm around Shannon. “And now, if you will excuse us...”

Sayid and Shannon don't make it out of the fire circle, though. From the darkness Boone's voice hisses out, “Hey, Shannon.” His eyes glint like the animals Hurley has imagined at the forest's edge. Nearby, Locke huddles in a snoring lump.

“Isn't it past your bed-time?” Shannon snaps. Sayid tries to steer her along, but she stops dead in her tracks.

“So, have you told him yet?” Stubble blurs Boone's perfect jaw. His words slide out, as if he's been drinking, although there is no more alcohol, not even Swan station leftovers.

Big as Hurley is, it's as if they don't notice him at all.

Sayid stops too, alert as a cat. “Tell me what?”

Boone's chuckle rolls out. “I bet you think she's Miss Pure and Wholesome. Let me give you a few tips on what she likes, especially when—“

Locke's voice pierces the tense night air like a gunshot. “Boone, shut up.” 

Sayid won't let it rest. His whole body tenses into a fighting stance as Shannon shakes with silent tears. “Thank you for your concern, John,” he says, fighting to control his voice. “But I would like to hear more.”

Hurley knows that when Sayid sounds sweet and reasonable, somebody's about to get hurt. Shannon switches from silent to high-volume crying, which draws a crowd. Across the camp, Claire has wriggled out of her blanket burrito and tries to push through to Hurley.

Boone staggers to his feet, thrown off balance by Sayid's verbal judo. “That night in the hotel, Shannon, before the flight. Or has it slipped your mind, the way you slipped down your bra strap? While you're at it, he might like to know why you were in Sydney.”

Shannon pulls herself together faster than Hurley could imagine. “Take your white-knight jousting lance and stick it up your ass, Boone. Sideways.”

Boone's jaw drops. No one dares breathe. Breathing out a low curse, he races towards Shannon.

There's only one thing for Hurley to do, standing in a direct line between the two of them. He lifts his knee, right in Boone's path.

Boone collides with Hurley's leg and flips like an acrobat, but he doesn't land like one. When he hits the ground, air shoots out of him with a massive “Oof.”

He stares at Hurley in confused rage, but Hurley just lets him lie there. As Locke half-drags Boone to his feet, he says, “I'm disappointed in you, son. I thought you'd gotten beyond that.” It must hurt Boone, the way Locke squeezes the fingers of one hand into his upper arm, but Boone is silent.

Locke turns to face the group, as if ready for a fight himself. Moonlight reflects from his t-shirt and bald head, making him look like he's clad in glistening white armor. 

Jack stands at the circle's edge, hands on hips, frowning. “People, we're forgetting our purpose. We're all working for the same goal, to get rescued. That's what we all want—“

“I don't.” 

Everyone stares at Locke. 

Sawyer has been silent, lurking on the fringe until now. “Then you can kindly stay the hell out of everybody else's way, Mr. Clean.”

“What have you got to go back to, James?”

People look at one another, confused, including Hurley. Who the hell is “James?”

“That's your name, isn't it? From the manifest.”

Sawyer looks abashed, the fight gone out of him.

Encouraged, Locke goes on. “What do any of us have waiting back there? Don't you see? We were brought here for a reason.”

“What reason is that, John?” Kate's voice cuts like a blade through the night air. “If there's some magical, mystical reason, I want to know what it is.”

For an instant Locke looks confused, before gesturing towards the radio tower. “Now that this thing's shut off, maybe we can find out what it is. Before, when you were all trying to find it, we couldn't hear clearly.”

“Hear what, John?” In his irritated exhaustion, Jack looks about to snap. 

Locke's eyes suggest revelations, pent up since the crash. “The Island. Sayid, please try to understand why I had to stop you—“

He doesn't even get to finish his sentence. In his mind, Hurley sees Sayid from the first week after the crash, after that failed mission to find the radio tower: his bloodied head, his rage at getting cold-cocked from behind.

“You dog,” Sayid growls. He rushes Locke, but Jack, Sawyer, and Scott are faster, and catch him before he connects.

Hurley doesn't help them, because he's too busy cradling Claire and Aaron in his arms, the baby squeaking in protest at being jammed against Hurley's stomach. Kate and Sun keep Shannon from flying at Locke with her sharp fingernails. 

As three men wrestle Sayid to the ground, he slips halfway out of Jack's grasp. Sawyer drags him back by the legs, but Sayid is so enraged that the men can't hold him. When he collapses in surrender, it's by his own volition. 

Shannon breaks free and flies to his side. Jack crouches beside both of them, saying in low, urgent tones, “Sayid, you did what we came to do. Just let it go.” He helps both Sayid and Shannon to their feet, but Sayid still shoots daggers at Locke.

“He is lower than a dog. A snake, crawling on its belly and eating dust. You cannot trust him.”

As Locke moves past, the group parts to let him through, avoiding eye contact. When he lets Boone go, Boone rubs his arm. 

“We'll be leaving in the morning,” Locke announces.

Jack looks puzzled for an instant. “We're all leaving in the morning.”

“Show's over, everybody,” says Sawyer, and for the first time people actually listen to him. The crowd begins to break up.

Hurley and Claire return to their blankets, but no matter how closely he holds her, no matter how tenderly he caresses her back, neither of them sleep for a very long time.

* * * * * * * *

Dawn breaks, cold and smeared with gray. Jack tries to corral the group so that they all return to the beach camp together, but half the band has already drifted away. Hurley doesn't blame them for not wanting to watch a repeat performance of the Sayid-and-Locke show.

“They won't get lost,” Danielle remarks, as carefree as if children were returning to the bunk house at summer camp. “It is all downhill, and the path is clearly marked.” She then turns back to copying a map onto a piece of paper, the dedication page torn from one of Sawyer's books.

Locke takes it without thanking her. Next to him, Boone rubs the purple blotch on his upper arm.

“Where's Mr. Locke going?” Walt asks. 

Michael doesn't answer. Instead he turns to Locke in appeal. “You sure you want to do this, man?”

Locke ignores him as he studies Danielle's stark, clear lines. The twisting path marked by arrows ends in a squat building that looks like something found in the Peruvian jungle. The Temple.

“If someone shows up for us, we might have to go suddenly,” says Jack. “We may not be able to get to you.”

Locke just gives Jack an enigmatic smile as he holsters his pistol in his waistband, his pockets full of ammo. “I'm not looking to be rescued, Jack.”

Shannon wipes her eyes, as if she has been up all night crying. “Does that go for you too, Boone?” 

Boone shakes his head as if listening to buzzing flies, not conversation.

When she plants herself in front of him, not even Sayid holds her back. “When we get rescued, what the hell am I supposed to tell your parents?”

“His parents? Like, not _their_ parents?” Hurley says, confused.

“I'll explain later,” Claire whispers.

As Boone brushes by Shannon, all he says is, “Tell my mother I'm dead.”

She turns away with a stricken face as Boone and Locke disappear into the morning jungle gloom.

* * * * * * * *

Only Walt seems to miss Locke. On the way back to the beach, Vincent dances around the children, trying to lead them into the forest to play, although Michael and Cindy won't let them. In frustration Michael leashes Vincent and pulls him to heel with a strong arm. Their small group mopes along in silence.

No one cares to form a guarding phalanx around the marchers. People with rifles mingle with the rest of the throng. Knowing that the _thing_ is out there leaves them frightened and reassured at the same time. Instinctively they know that shooting at it would be pointless. The only comfort is that the Others are probably afraid of it, too. Why else would they cower in a temple, or in their northern village?

Claire clings to Hurley for awhile, then groups up with Shannon, Sun and Kate. They put their heads together, talking in low voices so that no one else can hear. Hurley lags behind, because downhill travel is actually trickier than up. As he picks his way over rocks and tree roots, he doesn't trust his big, clumsy feet. It would suck to fall and sprain an ankle, or worse.

Sawyer hangs back with Hurley, rifle swinging from his shoulder. “Should have grabbed a pistol,” he remarks. “This thing's a pain in the ass.”

“Doesn't seem to bother Danielle,” Hurley says. She and Sayid are out of sight, up at the head of the moving column, leading the way with watchful eyes and fingers ready on the trigger.

Hurley stubs his toe on a rock, which slows him down even more.

“You all right there, Hugo?”

Hugo. No one has called him that since he left Sydney. “How'd you know that's my name?”

“Ol' Baldy wasn't the only one who got ahold of the manifest.” He pats his side pocket. “Just thought it might come in handy.”

The last of the walkers move past them. Hurley says, “That Temple place, you said it was kinda hard to get into. You think they'll take Boone and Locke?”

“Hard to say. Maybe they got ways to smell out a man's sincerity. Goodwin just bolted there out of fear. Locke, he's different. He's a believer.” 

Sawyer sounds different when he's not being sarcastic, almost like someone Hurley could kick back and chill with. “Destiny, right.” Hurley wonders what kinds of trials Locke and Boone will have to go through to join the Temple.

Before they know it, they've brought up the rear. Hurley points to the jungle off the path. “I gotta, um.”

“What the hell,” Sawyer says. “Buddy system, remember?”

The undergrowth is scanty on the hillside, and the first copse of bushes they come to are covered with spiders. “The jumping kind,” Sawyer says. “I'll hold it till the next exit.”

The ground slopes more steeply than expected, and soon the path above them vanishes from view. Sawyer positions himself away from Hurley, and lowers his rifle to the ground.

As they zip up, a shadow falls over them from behind. The tree-tops rustle, and Hurley's stomach drops to his knees. If he hadn't already peed, he'd cut loose for sure. Although the jungle is warm, a clammy coldness steals over him, working its way from the inside out.

He doesn't know what he'll do, what he'll see if he turns around. Whatever it is, it's big, almost blotting out the sun. Peering over, he sees Sawyer's fear-bleached face.

The jungle behind them rustles again, as if gathering its strength. Hurley's _abuelita_ had a tabby cat that used to stalk birds: the tense anticipation, the twitching of tail, the trembling legs, and then the strike—

“Run!” Sawyer yells. “Just fucking _run_!”

They tear-ass down the hill, and it's a miracle that Hurley doesn't topple head over heels. The roar behind them rises almost to a scream, and Hurley can hear the sound of splintering wood, as branches thump on the ground. 

Something crazy possesses Sawyer, and he stops to look behind him. His eyes grow big as a Mojave desert rabbit caught in the headlights of the jeep about to turn it into road tostada. Hurley can't stop in time, though, and the shock of hitting muscle and bone shoots through him.

Both of them tumble down the hillside like bowling pins. Hurley covers his head and lets himself roll with it, praying that he won't smash into a tree. Soon the ground flattens out, and they both slide to a halt. 

Sawyer's face is scratched, his hair covered with leaf litter. He pulls himself to his feet, checking to see if anything is broken or out of place. “You ever play football?”

What the hell? “Uh, no.”

“Too bad, Gordo. You'd of made one hell of a lineman.”

“Sorry.”

Sawyer claps him on the shoulder. “No sorry about it. You might have saved our asses.”

“Dude, I don't think we could have outrun that thing.” 

They exchange a bleak glance. It was playing with them, not hunting. Had it wanted to catch them, their guts would have been strewn over the jungle like party streamers.

The woods are silent now, without a single bird cheep. The dark shadow is gone, but around them trees lie toppled, while broken branches hang from those still standing. Sawyer and Hurley have landed in a box canyon, overhung with scrubby trees.

“Shitfire,” Sawyer says. “Left my rifle.”

“It's probably still there.”

As they make their way uphill, it's no longer clear where “there” is. An enormous fallen tree blocks their way, and Hurley can't climb the rocky cliffs which flank it on both sides, which forces them downhill for a time. When they start climbing up once more, the trees are thicker, covered with long thin vines like hair. After a few false turns and starts, it dawns on them both that they are lost.

The heavily canopied forest is muggy and hot. Hurley plops onto a log, wiping his wet face. 

“You got any water in there, Hugo?”

Hurley doesn't mind the way Sawyer says his name. His tone doesn't quite show respect, but it's close enough. Lucky the backpack didn't come off in his tumble. He rummages through the spare diapers, a little food, plus half a dozen water bottles. 

The jungle is still unnaturally quiet, but when Sawyer twists off the bottle cap, the branches shake, just out of sight.

It's not like the treetop catastrophe they've just experienced, because this small sound is more human. Hurley recognizes the next noise, too: the click a rifle makes when the safety is released.

Sawyer has heard it as well. In a voice dripping with exhaustion he says, “I'm too tired to play with you, whoever the fuck you are. I surrender. Take me to your leader.”

Now it's Hurley's turn to stare, slack-jawed, as the bushes part and three people emerge into the greenish light. The first one is a woman, and all Hurley registers at first is that she's got them trained in her rifle sights. Sawyer's rifle, by the looks of it. Behind her, two darker shapes still crouch in the shadows.

“Water,” she demands, waving her rifle at Sawyer. Her tense stance reminds Hurley of Danielle, but her voice cracks.

“How 'bout you say please, Blondie? Better yet, trade you water for my gun.”

Sawyer must have broken something in his brain during their downhill slide, but amazingly, it's the right thing to say. Under the dirt and sweat, the woman is indeed blonde, with wide blue eyes that stand out in her earth-smeared face. Best of all, she lowers the rifle.

“Not just yet,” she says, her voice smoother now. 

Hurley hands her three bottles, fixing his eye on the rifle as if that will keep it from going off. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies the two others, a teenage girl with thick, dark hair, and a slightly older, gangly boy.

They crouch in a cluster and guzzle their water, while the woman rests the rifle across her knees, safety still off. The boy gives the dark-haired girl the remainder of his bottle. When she finishes, she licks the rim, as well as the wet outside. 

Hurley thinks back to his first week on the Island, before they found the caves, to those days when it didn't rain. This is what real thirst looks like. He hands the teens two more bottles, and they drink slowly now that they're not so parched. 

“You got any food in there?” the girl says.

“Jackfruit, but it's kinda squished.”

The boy and girl practically snatch it from Hurley's outstretched hand, tossing the leaf wrappers aside and cramming the starchy mess into their mouths. 

The blonde woman takes some, too. She wipes her mouth and smiles, sweet as breaking morning, then extends her hand while still keeping hold of the gun.

“I'm Juliet,” she says.

( _continued_ )


	25. What the Heart Wants

As the first unearthly shriek rips through the tree-tops, the walkers freeze in place, and Claire reaches for Kate's hand. Shannon stops chattering in mid-sentence. People have spread out into a long, thin column, and it's hard for Claire to see who's behind or ahead of her.

Kate takes charge. “Let's make tracks. Don't run, though. You might slip.”

“Where's Jin?” Sun whispers, panicked.

“Up ahead with Jack,” Kate answers.

Claire cranes her neck behind, hoping to catch sight of Hurley. People ignore Kate as they stampede past, like cattle.

“Slow down!” Kate calls out. “Don't run over each other!” Still clasping Claire's hand, she pulls Claire along.

The screeching, thumping sounds in the jungle grow fainter. Even though they're trotting along at a fast walk, not a run, Claire wants to catch her breath, stop to find Hurley. She can't, though, swept up as she is in the flood of people.

“Kate!” Jack calls. “Where are you?” He and Sayid flanking the moving column, trying to restrain the chaos. It's not until the air around them stops screaming that the crowd calms down. Soon the group come to a wide clearing, full of sunlight dancing off of fluttering leaves, where Claire catches her breath along with everyone else.

The castaways huddle together, avoiding the shadows, trying to stay in the dappled sunlight even though the heat is fierce.

“Everybody all right?” Jack says as he looks the group over.

People murmur, hug each other as Claire loosens the baby from his wrap. Her heart sinks as the jungle almost fades out around her. Hurley isn't among the group, and neither is Sawyer.

Kate sees they're gone, too, and springs to her feet. “They must have been at the end of the line.”

Michael tries to make light of it. “Maybe they found a short-cut, and they're back at the beach, firing up dinner.”

“We can track them, Dad!” Walt says in an excited voice. “Vincent can be a bloodhound!”

Everything inside Claire turns to ice water. “We've got to go back. We've got to find them.” She can't allow herself think of Hurley and Sawyer caught, flung about like mice tossed by a cat—

 _Stop it now_ , she tells herself. They probably hid, or found another way back to camp, like Michael said. Her dry-mouthed sense of panic says otherwise.

“Come on, Jack,” Kate says. “We can retrace our steps.”

“You will need me,” says Danielle. “I know this forest.”

Sayid wants to come along too, but Jack shakes his head. “Someone has to get these people back to the beach.” 

Shannon clings to Sayid as he leads, while Sun follows behind Jin. Claire walks along alone and forlorn, her steps weighed down by her heavy heart. She fights to keep up, not wanting to wind up at the tail of the queue. Scott and a few other men hold their rifles at the ready, and herd any stragglers like sheepdogs.

The baby whimpers, wanting to be fed, but they can't risk stopping. She lets him use her finger for a pacifier as she troops along, her worry growing with every step.

* * * * * * * *

Sawyer takes Juliet's outstretched hand in greeting. To Hurley, he looks like a man balanced on the edge of a precipice, ready for a fall but trying hard not to look down, because once he does, over he'll go.

Alex empties Hurley's backpack onto the short grass. “No more food, Karl,” she says with a disappointed pout. She unrolls a diaper and shakes it at Hurley. “These yours? 'Cause I don't see a baby.” 

There's no insult in it, though. Before Hurley can explain about Aaron, Juliet rolls her eyes and sighs, “Alex, that's enough.”

Whatever spell Sawyer is under bends, even if it doesn't break. “Well, ain't your daughter full of sass. Her daddy let her talk that way?”

That shuts Alex's smile down cold, but it's Juliet's turn to chuckle. “Do I look that old?”

Sawyer grins, and now the magic is back in full force. “Maybe if you got a real early start.”

“She's not my mom,” Alex breaks in, stubborn. This isn't a new fight, it seems.

“Sure she ain't,” Sawyer says. “But I bet she's one tough cookie.”

Hurley's had enough. He re-packs his bag, staring frankly at Alex now. Karl fixes himself to her side as if glued to it, and Hurley understands the feeling. With Juliet and Sawyer clinched in their standoff, Hurley draws an unopened chocolate bar from a side pocket that Alex missed, and hands it to her. “So, you guys are like, Others?”

“What are 'Others?'” Alex says through a mouthful of chocolate. 

Karl wraps his half neatly and slides it into his pocket as Hurley takes in Alex's wild, dark hair, the familiar set to her shoulders, the proud toss of the head, eyes deep and full of soul. There's no way she's Juliet's kid, and Hurley has a pretty good idea where she did come from. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen going on seventeen,” but Alex directs it to Juliet, not Hurley. “You said that if we left, it would be different. That Karl and I could finally—“

“Alex, please!” Juliet's tone hushes the girl at once. “We'll discuss this later. Anyway, Sawyer, we need to get moving.”

“Movin' where, sweetheart? Looks like you're in the driver's seat, long as you got my bang-stick there.”

A pink flush tints Juliet's cheeks, and Hurley swears she's fighting a smile. The light in her eyes goes out fast, though, because this trio is clearly on the run, and homeless. 

Hurley blurts out, “If you help us find the way back to our beach, you can, you know, hang out there for awhile.”

Sawyer is torn between suspicion and liking this idea very much. “Somethin' tells me Blondie here knows this Island like it was written on her back.”

Sawyer and Juliet lock eyes again, rivers of current flowing between them. Even Karl and Alex stop joshing and fidgeting. They feel it, too.

“Kafka,” Juliet says, as if mulling this over. “A man who reads Kafka.”

It's Sawyer's turn to blush. One more false step, and over that cliff-side of the heart he'll tumble. “You know how to get us to our damn beach, or not?”

“Give me some landmarks.” 

“It's near this bunker, the Swan station,” Hurley says, because Sawyer's still lost in her eyes, and anyway, Sawyer's even worse at navigating the jungle than Hurley is.

“You know about the Swan?” Juliet says, suddenly cool and cautious.

“Why shouldn't we?” says Hurley. “Say, you must know Desmond, right?” He doesn't like how a curtain lowers over Juliet's face, how she turns all twitchy and evasive as she says, “I've never met him.” As she raises the rifle barrel a little, then lowers it, Hurley can see that she's frightened, that she's been frightened all along. 

Now that her fear is out in the open, it begins to infect Hurley and Sawyer, too. Although the monster is gone, they seem naked and exposed in the rocky canyon. If anyone did come after them, they'd be trapped.

Sawyer must feel it, too, because he says, “The Swan it is, Goldilocks. Lead the way.”

“If it's even there anymore,” Hurley remarks to Juliet as he straps on his pack. “Cause we kinda blew it up.”

* * * * * * * *

When the castaways arrive at the beach camp, it's clear that Hurley and Sawyer haven't beat them there at all. Claire collapses in front of the main fire, mentally swatting away the terrified thoughts which dart at her like wasps.

Bernard and Rose squat beside her, and their worried, sympathetic faces speak for them. Bernard offers her some mussel soup, but she waves him off. Someone brings her water and she mutters her thanks without looking at their face. 

She changes the baby mechanically, and for the first time since the birth, the sight of Aaron's chubby baby body makes her want to cry. Poor little thing, he didn't ask to be born on an unknown Island, then have the only father he's ever known ripped away from him. She ties up his diaper, then pats his tummy gently. When a tiny smile flickers across his features, she looks away and hates herself for it.

She glances over to hers and Hurley's tent, and one hornet-sized notion sneaks through her defenses. If anything has happened to Hurley, she vows to herself, she will burn their tent to the ground. She could never sleep in it again, not without him. 

The fierce thought scares her. What's wrong with her, what kind of mother is she, to think horrible things like that? She pulls the baby flat up against her chest like Hurley would. Rocking back and forth, she stares out at the open ocean as silent tears slide down her cheeks, as the late afternoon sun sags towards the sea like a blood-red ball.

Kate is the one who snaps her out of it. “Claire, honey?” Her dark-brown hair is flecked with dried leaf bits, and she smells heavily green, like the forest. Her sad face says it all. No sign of either man.

Claire has cried everything out, because the cold wave of desolation which smacks her brings no tears. He can't be gone, he can't be, she repeats to herself, hating her need, her weakness, her failure to hold it together if only for the helpless child.

Danielle slides next to them. “We retraced our steps every inch of the way but found nothing but splintered wood: no clothing, no sign that anyone was hurt. It is no matter. We will search again tomorrow, Claire.”

Danielle means well, but what does she know about any of this? True, her own child was kidnapped, but at least she didn't have to raise a baby in the forest alone. She's strong and resourceful; she had to be, or this Island would have killed her. Kate, too, can track, hunt, run through the jungle for hours. Neither of them would sit and blubber as she's been doing.

They flank Claire on either side, trying not to show the pity they must feel for the helpless mum. Kate's arm encircles her, while Danielle stares at Aaron as if he's the most beautiful creature on earth.

“You are so blessed to have him,” Danielle says.

Claire strokes wisps of fuzz on the baby's head. The beach camp has resumed its regular rhythms, as if they hadn't been busy as carpenter ants for a week, or trekked halfway across the Island and back. People stir pots, crouch in front of fires, while the sun turns the sea from maroon to deep purple, and one green star appears over the horizon.

There's a Hurley-sized hole in the beach camp, in her tent, in her heart, and Claire doesn't know what she will do with herself if he is gone.

* * * * * * * *

Juliet leads the way through light woods which grow more like the dense foliage Hurley is used to. Alex and Karl glide behind her, silent and graceful as deer, and it's hard for Hurley to keep up. When he thumps up against a log or breaks a branch, Juliet turns to glare, but he ignores her. He has as much chance being quiet as he would jockeying the winner in the Kentucky Derby.

As they pick their way through dense jungle, chunks of concrete and shredded metal begin to dot the forest floor. Fragments of electrical cable like colored snakes hang in the trees.

Finally they reach the gaping pit that seems a hundred feet wide, its sloping crater filled with powdered dirt, twisted metal, and broken rebar.

“You shoulda seen it go off,” Sawyer remarks to Juliet. “Like an atom bomb movie, but played in reverse. It sucked everything back down into itself.”

Juliet just stares into the pit's dark eye, closed forever. Alex and Karl hold onto each other, fighting the urge to dance for joy. Karl lets out a laugh, more like a snort.

Sawyer growls, “You think this is funny, kid?”

“Not at all. It's how we got away.”

“When the lights went off,” Alex adds. “Everyone was panicking, so Juliet offered to go check the fence.” She smiles at Juliet, real pride in her voice. 

“The power was off at the main,” Juliet says. “We didn't have much time.”

“But that means...” Hurley imagines a cluster of houses with a black, tornado-like whirlwind heading right for it. “Sawyer, didn't that dude Goodwin say that fence was to keep the _thing_ out?”

Juliet's gasp rings through the air like a shot. “Goodwin Stanhope? You know Goodwin?”

Sawyer holds out his hand for the rifle. “Well, imagine that. We finally got somethin' to trade, you and me.”

She hands the weapon over, as if struggling through frozen mud. He tells her how he and Danielle had met Goodwin on his way to the Temple, how Goodwin had abandoned Juliet to Ben. She sinks to her haunches as if under a volley of blows, even though Sawyer's voice is gentle.

“So, Goldilocks,” he finishes. “Seems like your boyfriend dumped you.”

Alex shrieks like a little bird with outraged, ruffled feathers. “Your boyfriend? Goodwin was your boyfriend? He's _married._ ”

“Oopsie daisy,” Sawyer says. “Cat's outta the bag.”

“Sawyer, come on,” Hurley says.

“Nah, Hugo, I ain't gonna 'come on.' It's not like her people exactly rolled out the welcome mat when we crashed on this damned Island. Hell, they sent some baby-snatching bastard to grab Claire—“

“Ethan.” Juliet gulps, bracing herself.

“What?!”

“That would have been Ethan.”

Sawyer has been holding it in for awhile, and now he explodes like a bomb. “You mean you _knew_ that son-of-a-bitch?”

Afternoon air hangs hot and still around them. Alex and Karl cling to one other now, eyes wide and mouths shut. When Juliet speaks, her words come out in distinct little croaks. “He was the one who brought me to this Island. Three years ago. All I want to do is go home.”

As one tear slides down her cheek, she wipes it with a hand so dirty it leaves a broad brown smear. 

“Aw, hell,” Sawyer says. 

Hurley plops himself down on a freshly-fallen tree, a casualty of the Swan station's implosion. The sun already clips the tree-tops, and it hits him how worried Claire and everyone else must be. Even though he wants to tear-ass down the well-worn path to the beach like the proverbial horse that races home to the barn, he won't allow himself. Not yet.

“Juliet,” he says as softly as he can, “You got to tell us what happened. Why you're here. Who this Ben is, and what he wants. Before we take you into our camp, you got to give us some answers. Please.”

He hands her the last water bottle, and Juliet begins to speak.

* * * * * * * *

Jack comes up behind Claire and Kate and drapes an Oceanic blanket around Claire's shoulders, then reaches for Aaron. “May I?” He cradles the child in the crook of his arm, not examining him like a doctor would, just gazing at him with tenderness.

It's not lost on Kate, either. “You're good with him.”

For the first time since Hurley's been missing, Claire's heart lifts a little. She's not alone, is she? She has family: a half-brother, maybe even a great-aunt for Aaron, if Jack's mother can look beyond who Claire is, beyond the betrayal of her marriage. 

When Kate leans her head on Claire's shoulder, Claire can feel her exhaustion, can see how her fire-softened eyes rest on Jack as he holds the baby who sleeps in his arms. Maybe if she's really lucky, she'll have a sister, too.

If Kate can stay out of jail, that is.

Jack clears his throat as if something has been on his mind for awhile. “Claire, I'm not saying this because I'm worried—“

“Jack, please,” Kate says. “You're worried. We all are.”

“All right.” Now he looks almost bashful. “Whatever you have waiting for you in Los Angeles, I want you to know this. If—”

Everything is dry inside Claire, inside and out. “If Hurley and Sawyer don't make it back.”

“Yes. You're welcome to stay with me. My condo's small, but I've been meaning to unload it anyway, buy a house big enough for... everyone. Everyone here.” 

As scared and full of despair as Claire is, she can't help giving his sincerity a small tweak. “Don't you want to ask Kate first?”

“He has,” Kate says, the two simple words laden down with something complicated, hard to fix. “For me, well, we'll have to see what happens.”

By now everyone knows that Kate is in real trouble with the law, knows that she was the one cuffed to the long-dead marshal. Even if the man she killed had it coming, there will be a price to pay, and the only question is, how much.

“But you've got a home with me, Claire,” Jack finishes. “No matter what.”

Claire can tell how badly he wants this, how much he has riding on this double offer. “It's really sweet of you,” she starts to say, when a volley of high-pitched speech stops her flat.

It's Sun, rattling off to Jin in Korean at machine-gun speed, forgetting her vow to only use English with him. Jack rises to his feet, baby still in arms. 

A small crowd has formed at the west end of the beach, where a cluster of torchlit figures rounds the curved bend. 

Beside her, Claire hears Rose say, “Oh, thank God.” 

The Hurley-shaped hole in Claire's life fills as his shaggy, lumbering form emerges from the shadows. Sawyer ambles alongside, talking to a woman Claire doesn't recognize. Everyone in the approaching group wears a somber air, but they don't telegraph any threat.

Claire is about to take Aaron from Jack, when his little nod says, _Go on, I've got this._ She moves through the crowd like the bride at the head of the procession, slowly and fixed on one person, one goal alone. He's back, alive, and the heavy weight falls from her heart as if it never was. She's so fixed on him that she doesn't even look when someone next to her says, “Are they from the tail section?” and barely hears Ana Lucia's gruff, “Never seen them before.”

When he sees her, his arms catch her up in the whirlwind of his warm, fleshy hug. He spins her in one wide circle, then another, and she clings to him, wanting never to let go, wanting it to never stop.

When it does, she runs her hands all over his face, down his breast, and it's all him, he's here, he's real and whole and all right. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Rose beaming at her, and it shames her a little, because Rose went through this every minute of every day, for almost two months.

It's all right, though. She doesn't have to be strong in Rose's way. It's enough to be strong in her own, even if it means admitting how soft she is, how weak. As she looks up at Hurley's sweet face, his open mouth full of promise, kisses to be saved for later, not in front of the whole camp, oh no, something she's never understood becomes clear to her.

She stands with her arms around him, so glad that she could die right here on this beach, right now. She isn't weak at all. It's only in being open to someone, so open that she can't imagine her life without him, that she finds her strength.

Among the new people, no one is smiling or laughing, not even Hurley. In fact, they look like they just came from a funeral. Only the teenage girl with wild hair perks up long enough to call out, “Hey, Hurley, aren't you gonna introduce us?”

He swings his sad face towards her. “Sure, Alex.”

Through the crowd, Danielle hears her daughter's name and looks up.

* * * * * * * *

Whatever has pulled down Hurley's mood, it's cast aside in the flurry of introductions, of Danielle finding her lost daughter Alex after sixteen long, lonely years. The survivors look Juliet over with wary expressions, but she isn't alone, not with Sawyer right beside her, their heads close together.

Claire pulls Hurley over to the thicket at the edge of the forest where so long ago she read his palm: the prosperity line showing tremendous wealth, the outrageously long life line, the jagged pattern of the heart which solidified into a straight and faithful groove.

His kisses taste like sweat and tears. When she comes up for breath, he looks even sadder, and a different fear flicks through her, not of loss, but some anxious dread. Brushing back a tangled brown curl, she whispers, “What's wrong?”

He does that little shuffle, looking down at his feet instead of meeting her glance. “It's bad, Claire. Really bad.”

“What's bad? Them, the new ones?”

“Nah, they're cool. They're just on the run from Ben, that's all.” 

“Oh great, they're going to lead the Others directly to us?”

“I don't think so. They snuck away. At least Danielle's found her kid.”

Frustration crackles through her like electricity. “Hurley, if something was wrong, if something is upsetting you, we talked about this—“

He flings his hands up, as if that would cast off everything, fix it. “I can't be with you, Claire. Nobody can be with each other, not here on the Island.”

“What? You can't be with me? Are you starting that again, that curse business—”

“No! We can't be together like I want to... The way I thought you wanted to, too. When you get better from the baby.”

She's far better than anyone would have thought, and had Hurley not been so sad, she would have wanted nothing more than to plump up their grass-stuffed mattress, stretch Hurley out on it and test her new body. “I don't understand. Why can't we?”

He's almost in tears now. “Juliet, she's a doctor. A baby doctor. That guy Ethan, that you and Danielle popped? He and Juliet did science-y stuff with babies. Because nobody on this Island can have them. They die.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Claire says. “Did I die? Did Danielle?”

“I asked Juliet that. She said it was because you both got pregnant off the Island. But here, it doesn't work.”

Claire has to lean on Hurley because she doesn't trust her knees to hold her up. “Oh, God, do you believe it? I mean, it's incredible—“

“Yeah, Claire, I do. I get this kind of eye twitch when people are lying. It's kind of a superpower, I guess. Probably got it from my mom.”

“What about Sun? And Faith? What's going to happen to them?”

When he doesn't look at her, she knows it's bad. Inside she hears her own mum's voice, sounding as it did before the accident put her in the coma, and her mother's words come out of Claire's mouth. “Well, we can't sit around here while the rain wrecks the hay. We've got to make sure everyone knows this.” 

Hurley looks blank, so she adds, “Before people bed down for the night.”

The vision of him stretched out before her, bare and luxuriant, pops like a soap bubble. 

“You got it,” Hurley says, taking her hand as they head for the crowd. “You don't wait with warnings. You warn.”

( _continued_ )


	26. Rachel Weeping

As Claire puts Aaron to bed, Hurley takes Juliet by one arm, while Sawyer holds the other. Together they head for the central fire.

“You got to tell everybody, Juliet.” Fear clutches Hurley's gut, because people are already washing their supper dishes in the sea, or settling in for the evening. There isn't much time.

Even in the firelight, Juliet's face shines pale as the inside of an oyster shell. “I can't,” she whispers. “Not something like this. They don't know me. They'll blame me.”

“I'm right here,” Sawyer says. “Hugo and me, we got your back.”

Curious people start to cluster around the fire, including Jack and Kate. Hurley says to Jack, “You got to get everybody over here. It's really important.”

Jack wipes his face, clearly exhausted. “Hurley, it can wait till morning.”

“No, it can't. Juliet's got some news, and it's really bad.”

Kate glares at Jack. “If you won't get them, I will.”

“Hang on,” Hurley says to Kate. “Jack, listen. Juliet's afraid people are going to hurt her when they hear this. Even though it's not her fault.”

“Hurley, maybe you should be the one to tell everyone then,” Kate says.

Hurley hesitates. He has hated speaking in front of people ever since middle school, when thirty pairs of classroom eyes would focus on nothing but his size, his growing gut. The whispers and giggles would get worse as he stood there red-faced, his mouth hanging open and silent.

He sighs, torn. Two people already died because of him, no matter how often the doctors at Santa Rosa repeated their litany of reassurance. It's worth a little embarrassment to keep it from happening again.

He nods to Jack. “Okay. I'll tell them.”

It takes a few moments to gather the group. Across the camp, Ana, Libby, and Cindy herd the children together for the evening. On the other side, Shana and Kathy hang up some wet laundry, then disappear into their tent.

No need to chase them down, Hurley figures. They at least can wait till morning.

The crowd sits before Hurley, children at summer camp waiting to hear a fireside story. While no one sings songs or tells jokes, their faces are open, uncritical. They trust Jack, and by extension, him. Hurley pulls Juliet to his side, while Sawyer flanks her on the other. 

He clears his throat and begins. “There's something wrong with this Island. Really wrong.”

It must be the right opening, because besides a few quiet remarks from the crowd like “I knew it,” and “It was too good to last,” no one glares at Juliet. Deep down, Hurley knows that he speaks true.

“Ben kidnapped Juliet and brought her here so she could fix things. He told her that when she did, he'd send her back home. But he lied, and—“

The glance Sayid turns to Juliet is hard as a rifle sight. “You mean to say that Ben has a way to get on and off this Island?”

“We already knew that,” Kate says. “I want to hear the rest.”

Sayid settles next to Shannon, still glowering.

“Anyway...” Hurley desperately hunts for his train of thought. “Juliet couldn't fix it, though, and a lot of women died.”

“What?” Jane shouts. 

“She and Ethan and Goodwin, they were supposed to—“

“Ethan!” Shannon calls out, angry as Sayid but not holding it in.

“What the hell is going on?” someone yells from the sidelines.

“Spit it out, Hurley,” someone else complains. “You might have all night, but some of us are bushed.”

“I knew that rat bastard Ethan was dodgy,” Jane says. “Good job, Danielle.”

Danielle gives a little smirk. “I can't take all the credit. Some goes to Claire.”

“Guys, listen, okay?” Hurley pleads as the crowd spins out of control. “Like I said, Juliet couldn't fix it. She doesn't even know what went wrong in the first place—“

Even Kate loses her composure. “Fix _what? What's_ gone wrong?”

All through this, Juliet stands pale and still as marble. When Sawyer drapes a protective arm around her, she doesn't shake it off. Down in front, Alex and Karl whisper furiously to one another. Neither of them act surprised.

Claire is still in the tent with Aaron, which suits Hurley fine. At least she isn't witness to his humiliation.

Jack has had enough, and rises to his feet. “All right, everyone. Whatever this is, Hurley's obviously tired, and so are we. It's been a long day—“

At Santa Rosa they warned Hurley and everyone else about using their “outdoor voice.” It could bring an afternoon in isolation, or a shot strong enough to drop an elephant. Now, he uses it anyway. “Just shut up for one second. Listen. To. Me.”

The crowd falls into shocked silence. 

“Juliet's a baby doctor—“ Hurley begins.

“An endocrinology researcher, actually.”

He ignores Juliet and pushes on. “Women on this Island get pregnant, but they don't have their babies.” Nausea jostles with anxiety in his gut as the gruesome words emerge. “They bleed out, get seizures, and they die. Nothing works.”

Hurley has Jack's full attention now.

“Son of a bitch,” Sawyer says. “What did that bastard Ben do to them?”

“He didn't,” says Juliet. “I've been over the records so many times, I can recite them backwards. Ethan was the last child born on the Island, that I know of. In July of 1977.”

“That you know of,” Sayid repeats in a low growl.

That shakes Juliet up, but she presses on. “Of all the women who volunteered to get pregnant—“

“Volunteered? Bullshit,” Jane interrupts. “This Ben tricked you, made you his prisoner. Why should it have been different for anyone else?”

Juliet won't look at Jane, and the bad feeling works its way deeper in Hurley's gut. _Don't lie_ , he says silently to Juliet like a prayer. _Do. Not. Lie._

“Ben said the volunteers were doing Jacob's will,” Juliet says. “That they believed in him, and I should too.”

“Jacob?” says Sawyer, with a puzzled frown. “Who the hell is Jacob?”

Juliet trembles like a greyhound, but her voice is steady. “I don't know, Sawyer. Ben's people talked about him like he was some kind of prophet. A god, even.”

“Religious tosh,” Jane says in disgust as she plops back down. “Oldest trick in the book.” 

He's brought back to himself when Jack speaks. “When in gestation do the bleeding and seizures start?”

“Between sixteen and twenty weeks.”

Juliet's stark words weigh on the group. Sun and Faith don't have long to go before they reach that point. 

All eyes are trained on Juliet the storyteller, just like at camp, but there are no chuckles or half-scared whispers. What started out as an amusing story turned into real horror. No one doubts a word of it.

“There's something I don't understand,” Kate says. “Claire had Aaron just fine. So did Danielle. What was different?”

“Claire and Danielle conceived off-Island, not on it.”

“That makes no sense,” Kate persists. “Why would it make a difference?”

“Medically, it's complicated—“

Faith rests her head on Craig's shoulder and silently weeps. Sun is sending a fusillade of rapid-fire Korean in Jin's direction, and his eyes widen in anguish. 

“Yeah, I'm sure it is.” Kate's next question speaks for everyone. “If your people knew these women conceived here, if you knew they were going to die, why didn't you just take them off the Island?”

Juliet pauses, looking like she's just been slapped, then recovers herself. “Because Ben wouldn't allow it.” She turns sad eyes to Sawyer, clearly telegraphing at him to get her the hell out of there.

“Kate, don't you think if Juliet here could of left, she would?” Turning to Juliet, Sawyer takes her by the shoulders, but not roughly. “You didn't kill 'em, Blondie. If Ben was the one with the car keys, he did.”

Hurley has had enough. He's glad that nobody's ripped Juliet's head off, but the number one point still hangs in the air like a sword. “Juliet, you and Jack can geek out tomorrow, solve all the science. But people, this is what I'm trying to say. Normally I don't mess in married peoples' business, in their man-woman stuff. But pregnant women can die.” He pauses, heart knocking hard against his ribs. “I can't tell you what to do. You want to have sex, have sex. But I believe Juliet, that it's a really bad idea.”

Everyone seems frozen, Hurley right along with them, because of what he just said in front of the saints, God and everybody.

What kills Hurley is how the Island has betrayed them, and how he fell for it: to believe that this beautiful place would shelter them, nourish them, let them live here in peace even if no one came to rescue them.

Instead, the Island feels like a horror movie set. If murder lurked in the trees before, now it seeps like radiation into everything, poisoning the water, the air, the land itself. 

Poisoned, all of it, like a great green glowing ball of Kryptonite, but the kind that kills earthlings as well as Superman.

He sighs, exhausted. Tears trickle down his cheeks like rain, and he doesn't even bother to wipe them away.

Jack says, “Juliet, thank you. We'll talk more in the morning. For now, it's been a long day...” He looks to Hurley in appeal, his expression saying, _You started this, now help me finish it._

 _You're the doctor,_ Hurley shoots back in his mind. _So act like it._

Jack's nervous cough says, message received. “So I strongly suggest that we take Juliet's account seriously, and not risk any further compromises to anyone's safety. No matter how careful you are, no matter how much you think it's can't happen,” and here he looks full on at Kate, his meaning unmistakable. “There's always a chance.”

“We get it, Jack,” Shannon snaps. “Welcome, everyone, to Blue-ball Island.”

* * * * * * * *

When dawn comes, Claire wakens to Hurley spooning her from behind, her bottom snuggled close up against him. From his breathing, she can tell he's lost in a deep, warm dream. His belly and thighs fold around her like pillows, all of him soft and yielding except for his erection. Half-asleep herself, she slides up her skirt and wiggles her bare flesh against his hardness. Between her legs she aches with desire. It would be so easy to reach around, untie his shorts, take him in hand and slide him right in...

“Claire, no,” he whispers, awake now. 

They spring apart like boxers to their individual corners of the ring, afraid to touch.

“Sorry, Claire. When I'm asleep, it's just kinda... automatic.” 

Her mind is screaming, _No, you can't,_ while all her body wants is to sprawl underneath him and let him take her, hard. Everything is healed, better than ever, and she's ready now, more than ready. Desire fills the tent, thick and hot.

Her mind wins, and she shelters on her side of the bed while the seconds tick by.

She fights a flash of jealousy over Rose and Bernard, Ana Lucia and Libby, Kathy and Shana, who don't have time bombs in their beds. Sure, she could undo Hurley's drawstring, take him into her mouth, invite his thick fingers to run up and down her cleft, let him make her shudder in delight. He's done it before. He knows how. 

It's not that she doesn't trust him to avoid getting her pregnant, either. Last night he volunteered to leave their tent, to set up one for himself nearby, and only her tears put pay to that tosh. Nor is it that she finds his touch, his tongue somehow “less than” having him buried to the hilt inside her. It's just that Jack's six-week limit seems like a mockery now. Six weeks, months, years maybe. A lifetime, if no ship or plane comes for them.

She wants more children, Hurley's children. Someday, not right now, although she feels confident enough to tackle Irish twins. They play together, women have said. Have your kids close together, get it over with, enjoy them as they grow up. That's the little mother-wisdom which filtered through her defenses as a girl.

At least she felt confident, to be accurate. That was before everything shattered. 

He bridges the chasm between them by taking her hand. His brown eyes are so sad, his mouth so glum, that she can't resist crawling over to take him into her arms. They hang on to one another the way shipwreck survivors cling to driftwood.

There's nothing to say, so she strokes those shoulders soft as pillows, stout enough to hold up the world. People can live without children, she tells herself. Look how happy Rose and Bernard are. Brian and Kenneth are so proud of the house they just finished, and neither of them are having a baby anytime soon. If everyone really is stuck on this Island forever, Zach and Emma won't be alone, not with their three mums, if you count Cindy.

“At least we have each other,” Claire whispers to Hurley, and from his sweet smile, it was the right thing to say.

* * * * * * * *

Jack and Sayid barely let Juliet finish her breakfast before the interrogation resumes. Claire thinks of it that way, even though Sayid is silky and courteous once more. Beside Sayid sits Hurley, massive and silent, head propped on his chin.

Shannon and Claire toast breadfruit in between pieces of wire mesh, as the baby hangs on to her breast. He can move his head about now, can find the breast on his own if she leaves it bare for him. She doesn't want to know if this is normal for his age or not. He suckles whenever he feels like it, or looks up at her and smiles. Other than washing diapers, Aaron is barely any work at all.

Shannon waves a piece of crispy breadfruit at Sun and Faith, who sit huddled in conversation by Sun's shelter. “Glad it's not me. Aunt Flo came to visit two days ago, and I swear to God, Claire, I'll never bitch about her again.”

“How's Sayid taking things?”

Shannon rolls her eyes. “Let's just say that he is holding Juliet to some very high standards.” Her voice drops. “He doesn't know what it's like to be trapped in a situation. Held captive against your will.”

Claire seriously doubts this. Captive or jailer, both are imprisoned, each in their own way. She's saved from saying anything when Sawyer approaches, looking hungry but not wanting to beg. “Have some breadfruit,” she offers.

He squats down to join them, yawning widely. “Not that I got any sleep, bunking with Romeo over there, him yakkin' till sunrise about how much he loves his Juliet.” The night before, Danielle dragged Alex off to set up a bedroll in between herself and Juliet, while Sawyer got charged with Karl. Now the two of them help Danielle draw in a net laden with fish. 

“I'm sure you bestowed all your wisdom on him,” Shannon says.

Sawyer ignores her and nods over towards Jack and Juliet. “The docs been goin' at it for hours. Nobody knows what the hell they're talking about. I lasted about half an hour. Don't know how Hugo there can sit still for it.”

“Talk won't change a thing anyway,” Shannon says, ready to leave. “I'm going to go work on my base.”

After Shannon leaves, Sawyer finishes the rest of the breadfruit in great mouthfuls, then washes it down with a long swig of water. “Here's the thing I don't get, Mamacita. You remember when Danielle, Sayid and me found that piece-of-shit Goodwin and took him to the Temple?”

She nods.

“The Temple, it's got a big moat around it, fulla those flowers that float on the water.”

“Lotus,” she says, feeling as though she's just fallen into a strange dream.

“Yeah, them kind. We snuck up to it, spied a couple of kids fishing. Girl and a boy, right about Emma and Zach's ages, dressed in homespun. When they saw us, they hightailed it outta there like jackrabbits. Didn't even take their poles.”

Although she's sitting down, Claire's head starts to reel. “Sawyer, why didn't you say anything about this?”

“'Cause I forgot about it till now. They were just a couple of kids, Claire. Seemed more critical to focus on the guys with the AKs.”

“But those children, they could have been born here.”

He shakes his head, irritated but unable to resist her point. “Or they coulda been shipwrecked, just like us.”

“Even so, you have to tell Jack and Juliet.”

Resigned, Sawyer pulls her to her feet right along with him. 

As they approach the group, Claire sees Danielle's big Island map spread out before everyone, but nobody's looking at it. Juliet says, “...As I mentioned before, Jack, all their uterine biopsies were normal, as were their pituitary and ovarian hormone profiles. Ethan and I postulated that maybe—“

“Placentiation,” Jack breaks in. “I still say it sounds like a problem of placentiation.”

“Goodwin thought so too, but I think it goes back further than that, even before implantation. Something to do with abnormal metabolic function in the syncytiotrophoblast. At the very least, somewhere in the trophectoderm itself.”

Sawyer's fist clenches at Goodwin's name, and anger thrums underneath his congenial tones. “'Scuse me, hate to interrupt the seminar, but Sayid and me got something to interject here.”

Claire slides in next to Hurley as Sawyer delivers his news, punctuated by Sayid's nod of confirmation. Like Sawyer, Sayid saw the children too, and like Sawyer, thought nothing of it.

When Hurley speaks, Jack and Juliet turn to him as if they've forgotten he was even there. “Um, Juliet, you ever, like, go to this Temple? Just to check things out?”

“Never. Ben said it was a 'sanctuary.' Most of the people living in the Barracks didn't even know about it.”

“But you did.”

“Ben thought that sharing information with me might... change things.”

“Well, weren't you the belle of the ball,” Sawyer says, barely in control now. “Was that Temple a stag party, or were there women there too?”

Juliet's answer is so faint, Claire can barely hear it above the wind and surf. “I think there were women, yes.”

Sayid opens his mouth, then shuts it and sits back. Sawyer's doing a fine job all on his own.

“Women who might be havin' the same difficulties.”

Jack's the one who can't keep still. “You didn't check.”

“No, Jack, I didn't check. Why wouldn't it be an Island-wide phenomenon?” Juliet can't keep the pleading out of her voice. 

“I don't know, Juliet,” Jack says, and he sounds exasperated. “You tell me.”

Sayid seems fully in control now. “It seems, Juliet, that your equation still contains a considerable number of variables.” 

Claire doesn't know how he does it. More accurately, she doesn't want to.  
Juliet doesn't get to rise to Sayid's challenge, however, because Sun and Jin approach, with Michael trailing behind. There's murder in Jin's face, real rage. It's not directed at Juliet, though, but at sea and sky, the very land itself.

“Sun,” Jack says, trying to delay an explosion. “What's on your mind?”

“I want to understand our circumstances clearly,” Sun says in a crisp voice. “Juliet, in the three years that you have been on this Island, five women have died under your care, all between sixteen and twenty weeks into their pregnancies. With no exceptions.”

Jack winces and says aside to Juliet, “I don't want her in on my hospital review board hearing.”

Juliet almost looks like she might laugh, but that would be a terrible idea under the circumstances. Instead, she lifts her chin, calm and collected, even though Claire suspects she's screaming inside. “That's right.”

Sun translates to Jin, whose eyes dart everywhere like trapped animals. “We leave Island,” he says. “Now.”

“Jin, I think that's easier said than done—” Jack starts to say in a break-it-to-them gently voice, but Michael interrupts.

Michael is even angrier than Jin, or maybe he just expresses it better. “I've had it with you people, with all your talk. I'm not sitting here waiting for anybody to get sick, or for rescue, either. We need to rescue ourselves.” He takes a deep breath and looks round at everyone present, his face set in a hard challenge. “I'm sick of waiting. I'm building a raft.” 

“Raft?” Jin says.

“A boat,” Michael answers. “I am going to build a boat. Who's with me?”

“Boat,” Jin repeats. “Boat, to leave Island. I help you build boat.”

* * * * * * * *

That night, Claire lays Aaron in bed in between her and Hurley, nursing the baby to sleep. It reminds Hurley of a comic he once read, about this King Arthur-era couple with funny names. The chick's husband caught her sneaking out at night with this dude she dug way better, so hubby laid a sword between them at night, just to send a little message. 

Soon Claire and Aaron are both out like lights, but Hurley lies awake for many hours, watching strips of moonlight move across the tent-flap seams. 

There are kids at the Temple, two kids Zach and Emma's age, which meant they were born after 1977. After Ethan.

He can't shake it, no matter how much he tells himself that the kids could have just as easily been in a plane crash. Or shipwrecked. It's clear that Juliet doesn't know squat about the Temple, and that Ben wanted it that way. 

Earlier, Hurley watched Jack carefully fold up Danielle's big Island map, then stash it in its hard-shell suitcase, stowed next to the food tent. 

Inch by inch he creeps out of bed, pausing at every change in Claire's breathing. He's worn his cargoes instead of pajamas, just to have a few more layers between them, even though there's been no more bottom-wiggling. If anybody catches him out in the dead of night, he'll just say he's taking a leak.

When the tent flap falls, his heart almost stops when from inside, Aaron gives a whimper. Otherwise the entire camp is silent.

When the hard-shell suitcase opens, the click stops his heart again. He stuffs the folded map into his pocket, afraid to open it because the paper might crackle. 

Next to the map lies a small spiral notebook with a pencil jammed in the rings, and he grabs that too. What kind of idiot would he be, to just leave in the middle of the night with no word?

In the moonlight, he laboriously starts to write.

_Dear Claire and everybody:_

_I am going to the temple for ansers. If there are kids there we have to know when they arived and whether they got started here. I have Danyels map. Its not a long walk so I should be back in a few days. Claire I am sorry that I did'nt wake you. I did'nt want you to worry but I know you will any way._

_Claire I love you so much._

_Hurley._

He slips the note into the big pot which Rose uses every morning to boil water for tea. She won't be able to miss it.

Into his other cargo pocket he slides a water bottle. He doesn't dare take anything else except a torch, which he lights from the remains of the evening's fire. His heart surges from fear that someone will see.

No one does, though. In the dead of night, Hurley slips out of the beach camp.

( _continued_ )

**(A/N: The title is from Jeremiah 31:15.)**


	27. The Man in the High Cabin

Noonday sun burns Hurley's eyes. He's been walking since before dawn, and he doesn't have much water left. After draining his Oceanic bottle in one long swallow, he unwraps Danielle's map.

Of course it's written in French.

Green glittering insects flit by, take a few sips of sweat, then buzz off. He stares at the map, trying to make sense of it while his stomach rumbles.

Pictures are the same in any language, right? As he runs an imaginary line from the “X” which marks the radio tower up to the Temple sketch, he admits that he should have found the tower by now. How the hell could he have gotten lost, when he has just been up there three days before?

There's no wind, and thus no smell of the sea. Maybe he should wait for the sun to cross the sky towards the west, the direction he has to go. Eventually.

For now, it's too hot to go any further. Hurley crawls under the shade of a broad-leafed tree, curls up, and in minutes is deeply asleep.

* * * * * * * *

When he wakes up, things have gotten worse, because the sun has hidden itself beneath the western tree-line. Worse, his mouth tastes like bird-cage liner, and the big river which runs down the Island's center is on the other side of a steep ridge.

He's got to be the world's biggest idiot. He doesn't want to think about how angry Claire probably is, or that the smell of dinner is rising over the beach camp right about now. Maybe he hasn't gone far enough, and the radio tower will be just up ahead. 

On he walks as the unseen sun sinks lower, and a small worm of panic starts to gnaw at his insides. As he snakes around the western cliffs, loneliness washes over him. Other than the cheeping birds and the buzzing insects, he's completely alone.

Again he fumbles with the map, and this time the panic-worm takes a bite, a big one. Hurley doesn't have to know French to understand “ _Plus dangereux_ ” and “ _Phenomene etranges._ ” 

Oh, great. Strange, very dangerous phenomena. Just what he needs right now.

He has no clue where the radio tower is. For all he knows, he's already passed it. For the first time he wonders what the hell he is even doing out here. So what if there are kids at the Temple? Maybe they washed up just like he did. Maybe the Temple people will lie, just to get rid of him. If they let him go back at all.

If they let him live. Didn't Sawyer say they were hard cases, worse even than the convicts in the Florida state pen?

_Oh, Claire, I am so sorry._

He could turn around, try to find his way back to the beach. That won't help Sun and Faith, though. He mops his dripping brow, then decides. 

Anything he can find out will be better than nothing. 

Long ago, some big rocks rolled down the jungle hillside, leaving enough clearance to maybe get to the top. If he can get high enough, he can look around, maybe see the radio tower. Or the ocean. Anything except this endless green forest.

Even though it's not a hard climb, precious water drips from his face, soaks his neck and back. The panic-worm turns again, telling him that he hasn't peed since mid-morning, and you know what Jack said about that. Besides, who has ever heard of water on top of a hill?

On he pushes, legs seizing with cramps. He wipes his eyes but the blurriness won't go away. 

The best part about the hilltop is the cool breeze which washes over him. The low-hanging sun has almost sunk into the sea, although a steep cliff blocks his view of the ocean. To the south he sees a familiar plateau, the radio tower in its midst like a red-and-white toy.

He missed it by a mile. What an idiot he is. 

Blue dusk sweeps across the hill, plunging the western cliffs into darkness. He stops, held breathless by a wide vista glowing with evening gold. It's so perfect and peaceful that Hurley almost forgets his stomach, too hungry now to growl, or his sandpaper thirst. 

Maybe if he climbs higher still, he can catch a glimpse of the Temple. 

Steep volcanic rock formations bar his way, so he flanks them to the north, always north, then picks his way up the dark green hill. Eventually the sun disappears behind the western cliffs, plunging him into blue darkness. 

Inside Hurley, something gives way under waves of panic and despair. There's nothing up here, what was he thinking? He trips over a root and sinks to his knees.

_Mother of God, at least let me do what I came to do, and get back to tell everybody. Get back to Claire._

Stumbling along, he looks for a banyan tree, or a crevice between two rocks, anyplace to huddle for the night. He's so lost in concentration that he almost walks right into the cabin.

A cabin? He stares, dumbstruck.

It almost grows out of the hillside, covered with vines whose flowers have shut tight for the evening. Even in the dim light its plank boards gleam, freshly oiled and glossy. Warm candle-glow appears through the small front windows. The porch step creaks as his foot touches it.

He takes a deep breath, hesitating. They won't have to put him up or anything. All he really wants is some water. He tries to wet his tongue to speak, but his mouth is completely dry.

Here goes nothing. He raises his hand to knock, but before his knuckles touch wood, the door slowly opens. 

Warm light surrounds the silhouette of a man, who gestures for him to come in. “I've been waiting for you, Hugo. I'm Jacob.”

Hurley stumbles inside, drawn by the thought of water and the spicy smell of whatever simmers on the wood stove. As he dodges a spinning wheel, all he can think of is the three fairies' cottage from _Sleeping Beauty._ Gauzy curtains cover the windows, and baskets of colored threads cover the table. Against one wall, a hanging loom supports a half-finished tapestry bright as a rainbow.

Jacob hands Hurley a brimming clay mug. When his fingers brush Hurley's, his skin glows with momentary warmth.

Hurley tries hard not to gulp the water which flows through him like living rain and brings his parched tongue to life. He's being washed from the inside. His feet don't hurt anymore; his head lightens like a balloon pulling against its string, and some of his raging hunger subsides.

“Thanks,” he whispers. 

Jacob clears the baskets off the table, then fills two bowls from the pot. “Have a seat.” He waits for Hurley to start.

Amazingly, it's chili, red-pepper hot and laden with plump beans. After a few succulent bites, Hurley asks, “How'd you manage this?”

Jacob smiles. “Long ago, some visitors from the Canary Islands brought dried beans. The cumin and cilantro, peppers and tomatoes, they grow everywhere.” 

Hurley stops the spoon to his mouth. Something long-forgotten comes to mind, a story he once heard from Grandma Titi. Something about eating magic food, and how you weren't supposed to. 

Hopefully Jacob won't take this the wrong way. “Dude, are you... a god? Because Juliet said people thought you were.”

Jacob doesn't laugh, which is a relief. What's not a relief is how downcast he looks. “What _is_ a god, after all?” he says, half to himself. “Most days I just think of myself as the caretaker.” He picks at his food and goes silent.

“Caretaker?”

“Of this place. The Island.”

The water has cleared Hurley's head like nothing ever before. Every line in the woven tablecloth stands out in sharp focus. Flickering candlelight makes the tiny figures on the tapestry appear to move. Energy surges through Hurley, his hunger and thirst forgotten. 

His tongue becomes unstuck, almost as if it has a mind of its own. “Are you gonna keep me here? Not let me leave?”

“Not against your will.”

“So you're like, in charge.”

“Yes.”

Hurley rises. “Thanks for the food, Jacob. I don't think I've ever had anything better.” He knows he's enchanted, he has to be. It's not like being drugged, though. In fact, it's the opposite. Best yet, he couldn't lie if he wanted to. It's as if the words flow straight from his brain to his mouth. “Let me give you a hand cleaning up.”

A spring near the cabin flows out of a rocky cleft, its small pool surrounded by moss and ferns. After the dishes are clean, Hurley splashes his face and hair. The cabin appears tiny on the outside, barely big enough for a table and two chairs, nothing like the enormous light-filled room inside.

Jacob doesn't move to go back in, so Hurley doesn't either. For awhile they gaze up at the broad white band of stars, until Hurley says, “So, what about the women?”

“The women?”

“Juliet said they get pregnant and die. You had to know about that, right?”

Starlight floods the clearing, almost as bright as a full moon. Jacob says, “I broke my resolution not to get involved, but the Dharma Initiative didn't listen. They drilled anyway.”

The accident Juliet mentioned, that had to be it. No babies born since 1977. “So those Dharma dudes, like, broke the Island.”

“That's one way to put it.”

“And you just let them.” It's out before Hurley knows it. Oh, great, now he's gone and insulted the Island god. 

Jacob doesn't argue, though. He doesn't even look angry, just sad again.

At least Jacob hasn't turned him into a lizard or something, so Hurley takes heart. “Well, you're in charge. Why don't you fix it?”

“I don't need to.”

Even though Jacob has probably saved his life, Hurley can no more control the red rage which flares up, than he can control his blurting mouth. “You sure as hell do need to fix it. My friends, two of them are pregnant, and I don't want to see them die. They may not be the only ones either. Then there's Claire, and even though she and I—“

“Ah, Claire.” Jacob looks even sadder. “I didn't foresee Claire.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Hurley almost shouts.

Jacob stands silent for a few heartbeats, as if deliberating. Decision made, he lays a hand on Hurley's bare forearm. Even though Hurley's still mad as a cut snake, as Claire would say, he starts to calm down. 

“I don't have to fix anything,” Jacob says. “Because your people already did.”

“What?” Hurley sinks down on a rock, almost unable to take it in.

Jacob crouches down to join him. “The accident we're talking about took place underneath the Dharma station called the Swan.”

“The one Sayid blew up.” 

“That's right. I've done this job for a very long time, and I've made mistakes. Allowing the Dharma Initiative to come to the Island was one of two very bad ones.”

“Dude, what is your deal?” A horrific thought comes to Hurley, and he almost springs to his feet, but if he's right, it won't matter. “Do you have some kind of... prime directive?” He can see himself beamed up to the mother ship, probed for ninety years, then let go after everyone he knows and loves is dead. Please, not aliens. Anything but aliens.

Jacob's mood lightens a little. “I didn't come on a spaceship, Hugo. I was born right here on this Island.”

Just as Hurley can't speak an untruth in this strange place, he can also see untruths for what they are. Jacob isn't lying, so Hurley relaxes a little. “You're saying that whatever those scientists did at the Swan, it made the women sick. And we undid it.”

“That's right.” Then, out of the blue Jacob says, “Hugo, were you happy back in Los Angeles? Genuinely happy?”

Hurley doesn't even hesitate. “Not really. But a lot of people have it way worse.” A fierce hunger for Santa Monica washes over him as he sees the joy in his mother's face when she finds him alive. How his dad might be a dumb-ass, but he's been one too. He won't even mind if his mom snarks about him not having to drop a hundred pounds to snag a girl. 

A lifetime ago, before he got into the cab to catch his Sydney flight, he gave one look back. Then, the mansion seemed like a barren hotel, empty of guests. Now it feels like home, one he very much wants to get back to.

“Never mind,” Jacob says, as if Hurley has confessed all this out loud. “To answer your question, since the Swan is gone now, your friends will be all right. So will their children.”

“What about those kids Sawyer saw at the Temple?”

“Five years ago, the family escaped East Timor by boat.”

Hurley knows the rest. “And they wound up here instead.” There's no point in going to the Temple now, or hanging around here for that matter. The beach calls, with Claire's arms, their soft bed, the apologies he's already rehearsed more than once. Anyway, every scrap of fatigue is gone. He feels like he could walk a hundred miles. 

“Like I said, man, thanks for dinner. Guess I'll push on.” 

Jacob doesn't press the issue, just collects the plates and cups.

One last thing comes to Hurley's mind. “Jacob, you said you made two bad mistakes, and Dharma was one of them. What was the other one?”

Jacob sighs. “It's a long story.”

Something in Jacob's tone makes Hurley say, “I've got time.”

Inside, they settle themselves in front of the pot-bellied stove. As Jacob spins, he begins to speak.

Years from now, Hurley will remember that story only as broken pieces of a long, strange dream: of twins at war from the day of their birth; how one stole the other's birth-right; of the strange magic which binds them in seemingly eternal struggle. How Jacob in a moment of blinding rage turned his brother into a monster.

When Jacob finishes, an entire burlap bag of flax has been spun into thread. 

Hurley rises to his feet. “Dude, it's been real.” He knows exactly what he is going to do. 

Jacob must as well, because he nods in agreement. “Good luck.”

It doesn't surprise Hurley to see bright morning outside the cabin, instead of moonlight. Before he turns to leave he says, “Can you, um, do something so that he can't just kill me?”

Jacob smiles. “I already did.”

* * * * * * * *

The ground seems to roll beneath Hurley's feet as he speeds along the boar path. Whatever was in the water from Jacob's spring hasn't worn off yet. The rising heat doesn't trouble him, and he barely breaks a sweat. 

Soon, sooner than he should have, he stands in the midst of a banyan grove. The tree he's looking for stands spiky and without foliage, its white branches like bones against all that green. At its base he finds the small metal lapel pin, a heart with wings. 

He swallows hard before he looks up, hoping he won't live up to his nickname and hurl. 

The dead pilot's body high in the tree doesn't revolt him. He feels only pity, even though the guy looks way fresher than he should have after three months. The birds haven't even picked at him. Sunlight glints off the gold ring on the corpse's left hand.

Hurley is still wondering how he's going to get the body down, when behind him he hears a small cough.

A man leans against a tree, wearing a little smirk and clothing dyed a blue so deep it's almost black. “So my brother sent you.” It isn't a question. 

“You can't hurt me,” Hurley says, hoping it's true.

“Why should I want to?”

“You hurt the pilot.”

The man rubs his iron-streaked hair. “I made him an offer he shouldn't have been able to refuse. But he did, so I lost my temper.”

“That happen a lot, dude?”

The dark man shrugs. “Did my brother send you here to lecture me?”

“He didn't send me anywhere. It was my idea.”

“I suppose he tried to sell you on a job. The one he's been trying to get out of for almost two hundred years.”

All at once, Hurley knows why Jacob looked so sad. “Nope. Not that I would have taken it.”

“Smart man. Because as protector of this Island, Jacob's been pretty damned useless.”

“Look, I don't wanna get into family squabbles. I'm just here to make you an offer.”

Hurley and the man look up at the pilot's body at the same time, but the man speaks first. “He already said no.”

“Dude, he's dead. Jacob said that you could do this if it was someone who you spoke with in life, and who was dead but not buried.”

“That's right.”

“So, what's the prob?”

The man squirms, as if caught in a lie. “He didn't tell you all of it. No surprise there. Watch.”

It happens quick as the pause between two breaths. The man swirls, darkens, then twists into a tornado-like form. The grove echoes with clacks, like a train ready to derail. Dead leaves fly about, and even the pilot's body shakes in its perch.

Hurley forces Claire's sweet face to the forefront of his mind, because he wants her to be the last thing he sees before he dies. Even if she's going to kill him dead when he gets back to the beach.

Just to show off, the smoke-thing pulls a bush out of the ground and tosses it aside like a stalk of broccoli. Then the churning mass congeals once more into the shape of a man who slouches with folded arms. “Sure, I could take the pilot's form. But since his will in life didn't bend completely to mine, I won't be able to do that any longer.”

“So?”

The dark man stares, as if in shock. 

“So what if you can't turn into smoke and tear up trees. Big deal. You get to be him. You'll know everything he knew, do everything did. You want to get off this Island, right? Dude's a pilot, he flies all over the world.”

“He had a wife and two children,” the dark man muses. “They were the last thing in his mind before he died.”

Maybe this wasn't the best idea after all. “Forget it, man. Sorry I bothered you. Because I can't risk letting you hurt somebody's family.”

The dark man looks shocked. “I saw them too, you know. A strong son and a charming daughter, their mother a buxom, wide-hipped woman still young enough to bear. What do you take me for?”

“Somebody who killed a man 'cause he lost his temper.”

“You don't understand. I'll become him, become buried in him, to the point where I won't even remember myself. Or if I do, it will be only in dreams. He loved them and would never hurt them. Neither will I.”

Living water still courses through Hurley, and he knows the man speaks truth. “Jacob could have, you know, filled me in a little more. He's kinda worse than Yoda.”

“Yoda?” 

“Never mind. Your kids'll tell you all about Yoda.”

“It's not so simple as that.”

“Look, I know Jacob told you that you couldn't leave. But that was with your superpowers, man. All you have to do is give them up.” 

“That's not what I mean. People haven't changed in two thousand years, Hugo. Given some that I've met since, I'd say they've gotten worse.”

Hurley can't believe what he's hearing. “I think you're afraid. A coward.”

“A what?” The man goes dark around the edges, like an approaching storm cloud.

For the first time Hurley's knees go weak with fear. If Smokey goes all tornado on his ass, he's had it. “Yeah, a coward. Because if you're right, and you really do become this guy—“

“Seth. Seth Norris.”

“Things will still suck. People will still die. But at least you won't have to go through the bad stuff alone.” 

The dark man turns away from Hurley, eyes glistening. “Go into that tree over there, and don't come out until I call you. You don't want to see this.”

Hurley crouches inside the biggest banyan tree for what feels like a long time, trying not to listen to the rumbling locomotive noises, the creaking of the trees, the thump of a body hitting the hard ground. Small explosions make the banyan shake, followed by what sounds like earth being gathered and then dumped. 

He pushes his fingers in his ears, so that when a hand shakes his shoulder, he jumps, ready to punch. Instead of the dark man, there stands the round-faced Captain Norris, dressed in a filthy and ragged Oceanic uniform. 

Norris backs out into the grove, sputtering, “Are you... from the plane?” 

“You don't remember me? The talk we had?”

Norris shakes his head. “When we crashed, I blacked out. When I came to, all I remembered was a green blur, and being pulled upward. After that, nothing.”

“That's all?” 

“I've got to find the rest of the plane, the radio. Check for survivors. Signal for help.”

Norris genuinely doesn't remember, and Hurley makes a momentous decision. If they get out of here, a DNA test will show that this man is the captain of Oceanic 815. Although keeping silent is a form of lying, in this case it seems the lesser of two evils. 

Hurley has to be sure, though, so he calls for help upon every power on the Island and above it. He prays for clarity, for sight, for truth as he stares deeply into Norris's brown eyes. 

It's as he thought. There's nothing of the dark man there; just the pilot, torn by baffled anxiety. “Dude, you had one hell of a head injury,” Hurley says softly. “It's been three months.”

Norris reels, as if Hurley has pushed him over. He stares slack-mouthed, then throws himself onto Hurley's chest and begins to weep.

Hurley pats Norris awkwardly, not sure where to put his hands, embarrassed by the flood of emotion. When Norris steps back, wiping his eyes, Hurley says, “Come on, man. Let's go meet everybody. They're gonna be really glad to see you.”

( _continued_ )

**(A/N: The title is borrowed from Philip K. Dick's novel, _The Man in the High Castle_.)**


	28. Resurrection Row

All the way back to the beach camp, Hurley keeps an alert eye on Captain Norris for any signs of zombie-dom. When Hurley discovers that Norris's eldest daughter shares the same birthday as his own mother, and that Norris was equally anxious over missing her party, he lets down his guard. Soon they're chatting about how much braces cost and how each one of Norris's kids needs them; how mothers-in-law have to be treated with kid gloves; how wonderful it is that Hurley's going to be married and how much he's going to love it. 

By the time they push through the tall shrubs at the beach camp's north end, Hurley has almost forgotten that Seth Norris was once dead.

Mid-afternoon is the quietest part of the beach camp day, as most people rest in the blazing heat. Hurley automatically scopes around for Claire, but she's nowhere to be seen. 

He doesn't have to announce them, because Vincent does it for him with an energetic volley of barks. Walt, Emma, and Zack rush up, followed by Cindy. 

Wide-eyed and breathless, Walt says, “Are you the captain? I wanted to see the cockpit, but my dad said no, that they wouldn't let me, because of terrorists. This is so awesome—“

Norris is too busy gaping at the settlement to answer. Slow recognition grows in his eyes, but Hurley can tell he's struggling to find Cindy's name somewhere in the jumbled storage bin of his mind. 

“Captain?” she says. The alarm in her voice tells Hurley this won't be easy.

“Ms. Chandler? Cindy, right?”

A small crowd forms, but still no Claire. What if she really is mad at him, saw him coming and just stomped off?

Kate streaks across the compound, with Jack and Sayid close behind. When she sees Norris she stops dead, then reaches around for the pistol she always carries in the back of her jeans.

“Kate, hold on!” Hurley says. “This is the captain. Of the plane.”

“How is this possible?” Jack says. “When I last saw you—“

“Everybody, please!” Hurley interrupts. “Can we just take a load off, you know, before all the convo?”

Kate stares at Norris as if he's a snake ready to bite her, even as Hurley walks Norris to the central fire and hands him an Oceanic water bottle. “Just hang here a minute, Seth, okay?”

Cindy and Kate are fiercely whispering to one another, while Jack grabs Hurley by the arm and steers him off to the side. “Hurley, what the hell is going on? He was impaled in a tree, this isn't possible—“

The secret almost rolls off Hurley's tongue before he stops himself. “Dude, just look him over, all right? He doesn't remember anything since the day of the crash. Please, Jack.”

It's the right thing to say. “All right, Hurley. Let's get him to the medical tent.”

One more thing, the most important of all, even more so than a man apparently resurrected. “Where's Claire and Aaron?”

“She's working in the garden with Sun,” Cindy says. “I'll get her. Come on, kids, you come with me. Captain Norris is tired. You can visit with him later.”

In the infirmary tent, Kate and Hurley flank Norris on either side as he sits on the rickety cot. 

Jack squats before him, in full doctor-mode now. “Do you remember me?”

“Bits and pieces. You too,” Norris says, waving at Kate. “Someone else, a little guy.”

“That would be Charlie,” Kate says. 

The sad appeal in Norris's face almost breaks Hurley's heart. “My co-pilot didn't make it, did he?”

“No, he didn't,” Jack says. “I'm sorry.”

“What about the transponder? Any radio contact with anyone? Did anybody—“

Jack uses the same calm voice. “We'll fill you in. As for now, do you mind if I examine you?” After Jack pokes, prods, and checks practically every reflex, he gestures towards Norris's chest. “I'd like to—“

“No problem,” Norris says, stripping off his tattered shirt in one motion. He gasps at the sight of his own round stomach, streaked with a constellation of angry red scars. Some of the pits look deep enough for the tip of a pinky finger, and Hurley sways, a little sick.

Kate gives him a sharp poke and whispers, “Don't you dare.”

“Could you lie down for me?” Jack says to Norris. 

The scars extend around Norris's sides, and Jack prods every one. “You had some serious injuries there. Does this hurt?”

“Just a little tender.”

“Okay, then. You can get up now. Hurley, why don't you show the captain the shower, find him something to wear?” Jack's words are casual but it's clear that he can't wait to speak with Kate alone.

“You have a shower?” Norris says.

* * * * * * * *

While Norris splashes in every last drop of warm water, Hurley crouches under leafy ironwood trees with Eko and Charlie.

“How is this possible?” Charlie says, scratching his head. “I saw him. Everything that's supposed to be on the inside was on the outside.”

Eko rubs his beard thoughtfully. “Miracles can happen, Charlie. I learned that the hard way.”

“But what about my bloody song? I can't very well change it to, 'The Monster Didn't Eat the Pilot.'”

Hurley groans inside. “Come on, Charlie, have some respect.” 

Everyone looks over towards the medical tent at once, where Kate and Jack appear to be not so much arguing as having a heated discussion. Hurley can bet he knows about what, and so does Charlie.

“Think I'll stroll over and see what's up,” Charlie says. “Compare a few notes.”

Something unsettled rumbles around Hurley's middle. What was a person, if not their memories? His mom's _abuelita_ had none left before she died. Didn't know who anybody was, didn't even know who she was for that matter, but she still stayed sweet. Still let the rosary beads slip between her fingers in long-practiced movements, still mouthed prayers learned in childhood. Was still _her_ , if that made any sense.

So was he lying by letting everyone believe that this was Seth Norris? Was what made up Norris now gone, because Norris had been for all practical purposes dead for three months? 

Who was Smokey, for that matter? From what Jacob had said, the bodies that Jack and Kate had buried up by the caves were actually Jacob's brother and his mom. If that was Jacob's brother's body, what had been roaming the Island, and taken on Norris's form?

It makes his head hurt.

Hurley's puzzlement flees when he glances up to see Claire, Sun and a few other women emerge from the path to the garden. His heart leaps at the same time his stomach clenches. She doesn't look mad, but Hurley knows from his mother's temper that looks can be deceptive.

“Hey, Mr. Eko, can you do me a solid? Captain Norris, he bonked his head hard, been wandering around the jungle for months. Doesn't remember anything since the crash. I gotta go, so maybe could you like keep an eye on him till I get back?”

“Of course, Hurley. I will take him to the food tent, find him something to eat.” He smiles broadly, white teeth flashing in his dark face. “Claire will be glad to see you.”

* * * * * * * *

Claire drops her cloth bag of vegetables, clutches the baby in his sling and takes off towards Hurley in a sprint. Rose and Sun haven't left her side since yesterday morning, when she cried in fury and tore his note into a dozen pieces.

It seems like a lifetime ago, all forgotten now. Everything fades in importance - the news he might carry with him, the camp site buzz about the newcomer, the ever-present anxiety which has settled over the beach like a bleak fog - because now she's in his arms, the baby nestled between them. She buries her face in his breast, heart overflowing with tenderness, all the tears cried out of her, all the resentment evaporated over how he didn't even wake her up to say good-bye.

He lifts Aaron out of the _podegai_ and cradles him football-style, pulling Claire in close with the other arm. She's just about to give him the kiss of his life when over her shoulder she spies Norris, fresh in a polo shirt and cargoes, his Oceanic Airline wings pinned to his collar. Deep in conversation with Eko, he holds a tin plate of food.

“I found him in the forest, by the nose of the plane,” Hurley says. “He's got amnesia.” His tone tells her that's not the whole story by a long shot.

“But Kate said—“

“I know, Claire. It's gonna be all right, though.”

“Hurley, you have to know something,” she says, rapid and breathless. “Rose told Sun and I who was in that wheelchair. She said she could, because he wasn't in our company anymore. You'll never guess. It was Locke.”

At his indrawn breath, she adds, “Hurley, this is just as big. Maybe bigger.”

They watch as people slowly file up to Norris, pat his shoulder, shake his hand. Rose gives him a warm hug, her eyes shining with warmth.

“Come on, I want to say hi,” Claire says. When she stands behind Norris, recognition lights up his face. “Do you remember me? From the coffee shop, before the flight.”

He's trying to, pushing his memory as hard as he can, and a grin cracks his round face. “Don't sue me. I didn't make the ride extra-smooth for you, like I promised.”

“It's all right.”

More serious, he says, “I see you didn't give up your baby after all.”

“Nope. His name's Aaron.” She gives Hurley's hand a squeeze as she says to Norris, “I'd say it worked out perfectly.” _Almost,_ a voice inside says. _Perfectly, except for the little problem of no children, ever, unless you have a death wish._

“He's bald, like my Eli was when he was born.” A huge tenderness seems to overcome Norris, and Hurley's worried look fades.

“Who's in charge?” Norris says.

“That'd be Jack,” says Hurley. “Here he comes right now. Yo, Kate, Sayid, come meet the captain.”

“I can't hold people off any longer,” Jack says to Hurley. “Whatever you found at the Temple, you've got to tell me.”

“Temple?” Norris says. “Where the hell are we?”

“We're not sure exactly,” Sayid says. “We were hoping you could tell us.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Captain,” Jack says. “Will you excuse us? We've got something on the front burner now that we have to address.”

Something in Jack's tone gets Norris's attention, and he sinks to a nearby rock, his plate on his knees. 

“I will bring him up to date,” Sayid says in a silky voice.

“Jack, I think we kinda need Sayid too.”

Kate squats down next to Norris. “Captain, I'll fill you in.”

“Don't fire-hose it,” Jack whispers aside to Kate. “Memory loss is stressful.” He gestures for Hurley and Claire to follow him. 

As they head for the central fire, Hurley says, “I, um, didn't make it to the Temple. I met Jacob instead.”

Sayid stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

Jack practically runs over him. “But Juliet said—“

“I know what Juliet said, dude. It's a thousand times weirder than what you think.”

All this worry, and he didn't even finish what he started? Claire can't hold back the disappointment. “But if you didn't go to the Temple, then we don't know if there are any children there at all, much less whether they were born on the Island.”

“I do, though. The two kids weren't born here. They were shipwrecked.”

“Oh.” It's only when an icy wave washes through her that she realizes how much she had riding on the other answer. “Well, we're stuffed then, aren't we?”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. We're not. Stuffed, I mean. Sayid, this Jacob guy said that you already fixed it. You made it work, I mean, for women on the Island. They can have babies now, because you blew up the Swan.”

“Hurley, this makes no sense.” Jack looks as if he might cry. First Norris, then this. If responsibility had weight, it would push Jack to his knees.

“Juliet!” Sayid calls out, beckoning. 

She leaves the fire in front of Sawyer's tent, but not before Sawyer says in a fake grumble, “Doctors are always gettin' paged right when things get interesting.” Even though Sawyer can't see her suppressed smile, Claire can.

“How's the newcomer doing?” Juliet asks Jack.

“Well, without a full neuro workup, I'd say episodic retrograde amnesia, probably from a combination of head trauma and PTSD. His memories up to the crash seem intact, but he doesn't remember how he got injured. He's also got some healed lacerations that point to possible internal abdominal involvement, although—“

“Jack,” Sayid interrupts. “I appreciate your concern for Captain Norris. But that's not what we wish to discuss with you, Juliet.”

She gives Sayid a fleeting, almost contemptuous glance, then says to Jack, “But he's going to be all right.”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

Sayid says, “Juliet, Hurley has some news which could have substantial implications.”

“We might as well take a load off, everybody.” Hurley silently appeals to Claire, and she can tell something's tying him in knots. Pushing him won't help, though, so she nestles herself into the sand and puts Aaron on the breast.

Everyone sits in a circle around Hurley as he tells his tale: the cabin; the lonely man trying to spin away the isolation; the stunning revelation. He's not fooling Claire for one second, though. Like an iceberg, most of what happened is beneath the surface, for whatever reason. 

Bollocks to that. She'll get it out of him later.

Jack seems unconvinced. “I still don't see what the Swan would have to do with any of this—“

Sayid leans in, rapt. “Jack, it's quite straightforward. Why don't we have to press a button anymore? The energy isn't building up anymore.”

“I still don't see—“

“Physics can't be turned on its head here. Or can it? Conservation of energy states that energy can't be created or destroyed, yet it's going somewhere now. Where, and does it even matter?”

“Energy is matter, after all,” Juliet says in a dry voice. “And vice versa.”

It takes Sayid a few seconds to register that she's made a joke, but he only manages a faint smile. Claire knows that for him it's not just a problem to be solved, but a personal crisis. Just yesterday Shannon said to Claire that she never knew how much she wanted a baby until she discovered that she couldn't have one. Nor has Claire missed the covert looks from Alex, Sirrah, Sylvie, all the women young enough for it to be a problem. Even from Kate, and those side glances hurt worst of all.

Because Claire has something that they don't: a child.

Juliet has told them about how nuts it was up at the Barracks, the normal longing and resentment made worse by Ben's hype and broken promises. Every few months another woman ran away to the Temple because at least there no one was supposed to have sex, not even married people. 

“It can't be that simple,” says Jack. “That's fine if no more build-up of Swan energy means no damage to future pregnancies. That's a big 'if,' and given the limited information, I'm not willing to stake lives on it. But what about the damage already done?”

“Before 1987, the few women who were evacuated went to full term,” Juliet says. “Whatever damage was done at conception, it resolved itself when they were taken off-Island.”

Sayid starts to say, “And given the current absence of energy from the Swan—“ 

“That would be equivalent to removal from the Island,” Juliet finishes.

“Exactly.”

“Theoretically,” Jack adds.

Juliet says, “That's right, Jack. Theoretically.”

Hurley's been silent through all of this, although Claire knows him well enough to sense the fuming beneath the surface. Finally he asks, “So, um, what happened after 1987?” 

Claire doesn't like how pale Juliet grows, how she seems to crumple from the inside. “Ben happened to them, Hurley. He and the rest of the Others, they killed them. They killed them all, except for the children. Like Ethan. After that year, there are no more Dharma Initiative records.”

“What a fucking mess,” Jack says, wiping his face. 

No one has heard him swear like that before, and everyone but Sayid flinches. “Jack, Juliet, I believe that in medicine you have a practice of not administering a test, if to do so would not change the outcome.”

Juliet and Jack both chuckle. “Not in the American medical system,” Jack says.

“In principle, then,” says Sayid. “Hurley, this news you bring us is valuable, because if it is true, then no one will die, and—“

“If Hurley says it, it's true,” Claire puts in, even though she can feel Hurley holding back, the reticence. 

“I believe you,” Sayid says to Hurley. “In the sense that you yourself believe it to be true. As Jack says, some beliefs you risk your lives for, and others you don't. Jack, I say we continue with Michael's raft. We go with Captain Norris to the nose of the plane and try to salvage what electronics we can, step up our efforts at rescue.”

Claire hates to put Hurley on the spot, but this particular stone has to be turned. “Hurley, did you ask this Jacob about rescue?”

He hesitates, and his blush says it all. He hasn't.

Jack's had enough. “From what I'm hearing, Hurley, and no offense, there's some crazy man up in the mountains who's scamming the people of this Island. I don't know why, and I don't care. Claire, you remember when you were in labor with Aaron, I told you that you weren't going to die on my watch. Neither are Sun, or Faith. That's what I care about. That's my priority.”

“That's everyone's priority,” Sayid reminds him.

After almost losing Hurley on the way back from the radio tower, when he and Sawyer got separated and found Juliet; after he left for the Temple without telling her, Claire can't believe she's saying this. “Hurley, you have to go back. You have to find him again. If he knows all these things, he can get us rescued, or at least he'll know how.” 

“Kate and I will go with you,” Jack starts to say.

Hurley shouts, “No!”

A few people across the beach look up, startled.

“No,” he repeats, softer. “Jack, you... shouldn't. You can't. I can't explain it, man. Just. Don't. I know you probably think I'm crazy—“

“I don't think you're crazy, Hurley. But people can get bamboozled, confused, without being crazy. It's the logical question, yet you didn't ask. No one is blaming you.”

“Jack, please. I'll do it. But you can't go. You shouldn't.”

They sit at an impasse, until Claire rises to her feet. She takes Hurley by the hand and he almost floats up, buoyed by her touch. Even though she speaks to Jack, she looks Hurley full in the face. She has never been as sure about anything in her life. “You don't have to go, Jack. Because I will.”

The baby squeaks a little, nuzzling. To Claire, it feels as if no one else is on the beach save the three of them: Hurley, the baby, and herself. They've been talking so long that the afternoon has turned golden, drenching them all in gilded light. 

“What about Aaron?” Hurley says. 

“How do you think people got anywhere before cars, before wagons, even? The native Australians, they walk everywhere through the outback, whole families. We'll just have to go a bit slower, that's all.” Trying to make light of it, she finishes with, “And keep a watch out for smoke monsters.”

“I don't think that's gonna be a problem.” His voice drifts towards her as if out of a dream.

Sunlight flares behind Hurley, making his wild mane blaze while leaving the rest of him in shadow. She could fall into that velvet darkness and never climb out. Softly, as if from far away, she can hear Juliet sniffle a bit. 

It isn't until she hears Sawyer grumble, “Hey, Bluebell, what's got you worked up?” that Claire knows they've drawn a crowd.

“We're going to see Jacob together, Hurley,” Claire repeats. The stares of the beach camp play over her, but none of that matters. Something has put her foot to the path, and she can't rest until the end of it. “And we're going to make him tell us how to get off this Island.”

( _continued_ )

**(A/N: Bob Dylan wrote a song called “Desolation Row;” the title plays on that.)**


	29. Follow the River

Kate wraps dried fish in leaf wrappers, while Claire arranges them neatly in her backpack. Across the camp, Danielle and Alex pass Aaron back and forth as they talk with heads close together, as if sharing a secret. 

Hurley is still asleep in their tent, even though the sun is mid-morning-high. 

To be honest, Claire's worried. For the past two nights, he's been racked by dreams, the kind that make a person kick in their sleep, or wake up drenched in sweat with strangled moans. By daylight he drifts about like a sleepwalker, mechanically carrying bamboo poles for Michael's raft. If he didn't so often rest his head on Claire's shoulder, eyes closed, or pass his hand tenderly over Aaron's head, she'd worry that he was upset with her. 

Something inside is ripping him apart, it's plain. 

He had wanted to rush off at once on their “walkabout” to find Jacob, but Kate and Jack talked him into doing a little prep first, and for that Claire is grateful. Three days later, the fish are salted and dried, ready to go.

Kate sets her knife aside. “Claire, honey, are you sure you want to do this?” 

Despite her worry over Hurley, Claire has never been more sure of anything in her life. “We'll be fine.”

“From what Hurley said, it sounds like he almost died of thirst. And you...” Kate's voice trails off, clearly not wanting to offend.

“Haven't as much mass, I know.”

“I didn't mean—“

“Look, if it makes you feel better, Danielle's drawn up a map which takes us most of the way along the river. Once we leave the river-bed, Hurley's going to carry all the water.” 

Kate still doesn't look convinced, and at once Claire knows that there's something else behind this. “Kate, just because you don't want to leave the Island, doesn't mean I feel that way.”

“It's not so simple.” 

“It never is.” In the worst case, Kate is looking at years in prison. “Are you worried that Jack won't support you?”

“He _wants_ to support me. He made a joke, at least he found it funny even if I didn't, about how LA was full of lawyers who could get somebody off no matter what they did. Then it hit me, Claire. Did I want to be somebody's charity case, that they 'got off no matter what?'”

“You're not his charity case. He loves you. He wouldn't offer if he didn't expect you to take him up on it.”

“That's just it. He wants me to let him put it all together, make it work.”

Claire struggles against bafflement, confusion, against not wanting come down too harsh as her mum or Lindsey often do. “Kate, I've got to ask you this. Do you love him?”

Kate hesitates, but not for lack of an answer. It's as if the wall which has kept her safe for so very long has now turned into a prison. “I do,” she finally whispers. “But I can't understand why he loves me.”

She grips Kate's arm, hard. “Don't start that tosh. Once I bought into it too, the 'Oh, he's so much more educated than me,' 'Oh, his family has a forty-meter yacht, and I'm scavenging the jumble sales to find shoes.' If you don't love him, if you don't want him, that's one thing—“

“I do love him.” It comes out in a whisper, but a strong one.

A great weight rolls off Claire. “Well, then let Jack help you. That's what people who love each other do. Look around you.”

Kenneth and Brian have worked so hard on their house, but with Karl and Shana's help, they're pulling down the roof posts to serve as the main struts for Michael's raft. Alex and Danielle have taken the baby over to Ana Lucia's tent, joined by Faith and Janice. Alex changes him, her face tender. Cindy supervises Zach and Walt as they pull coconut fibers from shells, while Emma and Libby twist the fibrous mass into long cords.

“Besides,” Claire finishes. “You were there when Aaron was born. Maybe it's selfish of me, but I want you in my life. In our lives.”

Kate wipes her eyes, trying not to let Claire know how much these words touch her. “You got your flint starter?” 

“Right here.”

“Remember, dry tinder, the fluffier the better, and don't blow too hard on the spark. Just little breaths. Also, I wish you'd change your mind about taking a rifle.”

Claire wishes she could explain to Kate what she herself doesn't really understand. “We won't need it, Kate. Hurley says we have 'safe passage.'”

That stops Kate dead. “Claire, honey, I didn't want to bring this up, but there's something else that Jack... that Jack and I are worried about.”

Oh great bloody bollocks. Claire hates the snap in her voice as she says, “Just because someone's been in a sanatorium doesn't make everything they say unreliable.”

Before Kate can answer, Hurley pulls himself out of the tent, shoulders sagging under the weight of insomnia and anxiety. Claire doesn't even have time to plant a quick morning kiss on his cheek before he points to the backpack. “We can't bring any of that stuff.”

Kate's astonished “What?” collides with Claire's.

He spreads his hands in desperate appeal. “I know how this sounds, but we just can't. Obsidian knives, yeah, but none of Locke's, not even the machete. Ditto for anything from the Swan Station. Only coconut shells for water, no bottles.” Message delivered, he plops down onto a driftwood log in helpless resignation, as if he knows exactly what this sounds like. 

Kate glances down by the shoreline, where Michael has neatly laid out bamboo poles and metal sheets for the raft. Desmond and Jack look over Michael's neatly-drawn schematic, along with Norris, who's a bit of an amateur boat-builder himself. 

“I'm sorry, but I have to get Jack,” Kate says. “Maybe he can make you see reason.” She fixes Claire and Hurley both with a stern eye. “Don't go anywhere, either of you.”

Claire sinks down to Hurley, drawing him close. “This was in a dream, right?” Under her hands, his body vibrates not just from emotion, but as if some inner song is playing through him, using him as an instrument.

“This morning, after you got up.” 

“After the crash, I had dreams, too. Terrifying ones. But when you were there right next to me, I wasn't scared any longer. Hurley, don't shut me out. Please tell me why we can't bring this stuff.”

“They said we'd have everything we needed.”

“They? You mean, this Jacob?”

“Nah, not him. Just a bunch I couldn't see. At least I argued them into one of those fire-sparky things.”

“That's good, because neither one of us can start a fire to save our necks.”

“You don't think this sounds... crazy?”

Strangely, she doesn't. 

Satisfied, Hurley heaves himself to his feet and pulls her up with him. 

Jack and Kate are back, and Jack doesn't waste any time, either. “I'm concerned, Hurley. Not just for you, but for Claire, and the baby.”

Tears stand in Hurley's eyes. “It's got to be this way, man, or we shouldn't even bother.”

“Then don't bother, Hurley. Help us with the raft. Or go with Norris and Sayid to the cabin of the plane to scavenge electronics. People are hammering out more metal to make bigger reflectors for the fire. You two running off into the jungle with no food or water isn't helping. Think of Claire—“

Claire braces herself against the wind of Jack's disapproval, Kate's skepticism, all the sensible rationality beaten into her head from day one. “Jack, I believe Hurley, even if I don't understand it.”

“You do?” Hurley says, his voice breaking.

“Well, I don't understand any of this,” says Jack. “How one man can keep everybody prisoner on this Island—“

“How can somebody walk after being in a wheelchair?” Claire says.

“We don't know that. All we have is Rose's word; we never got Locke's confirmation—“

“Jack,” Claire interrupts, and her tone stops him cold. “I get it, that you have to see things for yourself. But let us go. Let us find out.”

Then Jack does something she would have never expected. He draws her in against his hard chest, and he's trembling. “Come back safely,” he says to Hurley over her shoulder. “I just found my sister, and I don't want to lose her.”

“You got it, bro.”

As Jack lets her go, Claire says to Hurley, “We should fetch the baby. It's time.”

* * * * * * * *

The river makes singing sounds as it flows over mossy stones, cooling the noonday air. Claire picks her way carefully over the rocks as little breezes swirl around her legs, while Hurley thumps behind her. When they're thirsty, all they have to do is dip their shells into water clear as crystal, fresh as rain.

Northward they move, ever north. Even though the trees change from fleshy tropical to leafy thinness, even though the river widens in places and narrows in others, the slap of water on rock remains the same. 

The farther they get from the beach camp, the happier Hurley seems, and all at once she understands what a torment these past few days have been. He squats by an eddy pool full of swarming fish, peering into the still waters. “Wish we could of brought a net.”

Downstream from the fish, Claire wrings out a clean diaper. “I've seen Jin catch a fish with his hands.”

“Yeah, well, that's Jin.”

She spreads the diaper on a rock to dry, then wets her hands again, just to feel the play of silken water. Overhead, the trees arch like cathedral spires. The leaves are speckled with a rainbow of different greens, and every shade has a name, even if she doesn't know them all. Half to Hurley, half to the forest she says, “What is this place?”

He's not paying attention, busy thrusting his hands into the water. Soon he's wrestling with a fish, a fat silvery one that leaps free with heart-stopping motion. He catches it on the downward arc and awkwardly pulls it to his chest, where it thrashes. If its silent, flapping mouth could scream, it would.

She and he both have watched Jin do this often, but it's still a shock when Hurley smashes the fish's head against a stone. It gives one last flop and then lies still. “Sorry, fish,” Hurley says as he slices it open with an obsidian knife.

They pick the roasted carcass down to the bones, which they cover with river sand. 

When they're on the move again, reddening sunlight has already started to turn leaf above and water below to gold. She strips off her t-shirt and ties it to her head, to mop up the sweat which drenches her face. As the baby roots and nuzzles, clearly happy at unfettered access, she understands why some tribal women used to go shirtless. 

After the first astonished glance, Hurley tells her the story of Jacob and his brother, as well as the story of Captain Norris. She lets it wash over her, because she trusts Hurley, and because nothing in this strange jungle seems improbable anymore.

He saves the part about Jacob's offer for last.

“Well, you obviously didn't take him up on it.” Claire's tone is light, but all the same, a small fear flicks through her. It's been a long time since she last thought she might lose him.

“He'll find somebody else.” Even though the path is wide enough for them to walk side by side, he doesn't look at her.

“ _Will_ he?”

The edge in her voice brings him round, so she goes on. “After all, who wouldn't want to live for thousands of years, be invincible, never get sick or old?”

“A lot of people,” he mutters, still not meeting her eyes. “Everybody else around you would die. It would suck.”

“I guess it depends on what you think happens... afterwards. If you just wink out, then at least it puts off the inevitable.”

He turns wide, horrified eyes to her. “I want to see my _abuelita y abuelito_ again someday. Then when my mom dies, my dad, and then...” He hesitates, not wanting to say it.

Claire doesn't want to, either. No wonder this Jacob sounds so sad and lonely. She laces her fingers through Hurley's and they walk along in easy rhythm. In his sling, the baby nestles against her bare chest, nipple partially in his mouth. After a while she asks, “Does Jacob have any children?” 

He laughs without humor. “I seriously doubt it.”

“Somehow I'm not surprised.” Mum might be gorked, but Claire still looks forward to someday taking her motionless hand and running it along Aaron's skin, laying his cheek on hers so that she can hear his soft breathing. Because Mum can hear, Claire's sure of it. Even prickly-pear Aunt Lindsey will soften when she meets Aaron, not to mention Hurley. As Lindsey is fond of saying, she hates silver-tongued devils who don't know their bunghole from a wombat hole. Not Hurley, though, not by a long shot.

Maybe that day will never come to pass. But she's not ruling it out just yet.

As afternoon fades, violet and orange light edges the feather-duster leaves of a nearby coconut grove. Hurley collects armloads of palm-fronds and starts to build a lean-to under a stout bush. After lashing the baby to her back, Claire ties her knife to the end of a stick and stabs coconut crabs. At first she feels sorry for the leathery creatures as they squirm under the blade, but soon the satisfaction of the hunt drive out any regrets. She wraps twitching crab carcasses in wet banana leaves and covers them with hot ash, hair tied up out of her face.

She's so intent on roasting crabs that at first she doesn't notice Hurley staring at her. He's eating her up with his eyes, not just her breasts, but the whole sweat-soaked, ash-streaked lot of her. 

He peels off his own drenched shirt and hangs it on a limb, his nipples like tender beads in the cool evening air, his flesh rich as the land around them. On a lark she pierces the first crab with her knife, and he laughs at the quick spurt of pale fluid. Before long, they're both pricking one roasted crab after another, seeing whose squirts are the longest, the juiciest, the most energetic.

Suddenly she's flushed, even a little embarrassed, because she's not used to him sitting casually shirtless in front of a camp-fire. The crabs are drippy, and when crab-juice rolls down the curve of his chest, she leans over to lick a few of the droplets off. He tastes like seafood and ash and good, clean sweat, and she wants him more than she ever has.

The lean-to is clever: thick layers of dried palm-fronds all snug under a canopy of fresh ones. The sleepy baby doesn't stir when Claire hangs up the _podegai_ with him in it between two branches. She wedges in a few big palm leaves to form a screen in front of the baby's hammock-bed. Once down, Aaron will stay out like a light for four, maybe five hours.

The only sounds are the soft hum of cicadas, birds saying good night to one another, and the lazy slap of river-water on stone. She's drowsy and full, but not too sleepy to reach for Hurley. He fills her arms with naked flesh and her mouth with kisses: big sloppy ones that drench the smile she couldn't wipe off her face even if she tried.

She loves how she curves around him, now that there's no longer any baby in between them. It's as if he's the one who wears the pregnancy, by the way his big body fills the space between them. She grabs his sides and pulls him in closer, but he pauses, as if suddenly aware of his overwhelming size, unsure. 

“I guess I kinda overdid it at supper,” he whispers.

What's he talking about? Oh, _that_ again, the old self-consciousness. Into his ear she murmurs, “You feel wonderful.”

It's only when he lets his muscles go slack that she knows how much he had been holding back, how restrained he was. She strokes his body to life, on fire now, her cleft wet as that river. As she slides up against his loose belly, she leaves snail-slick trails along his skin. He thrusts long and hot against her thigh, and it would take only a simple twist of the hips for her to slide right on down. 

It's been so long since either of them have had any release. He's left a long wet trail of his own along her leg, as that pulsing tip silently pleads to be let in, wants to fill her with firm plump flesh that spurts hot and wet, and maybe it will be a little girl this time—

They pull back at the same instant. He mutters, “Oh, my God, Claire, I don't think I can.”

“Can what?” She has to fight to keep her voice low, to avoid crying out with frustration.

“Do that thing, you know, where you pull out. Right before.”

_No,_ her flesh cries out. _No, no, no._ “You don't have to.”

“But what if—“

“Would it be so bad?” Suddenly she knows down in her gut that she believes him about the Swan Station, how its destruction freed them all. That even if they're stuck on this Island for good, she won't die. A fundamental truth presses on her, big as Hurley. It's not belief until blood is on the line. 

His voice is thick as the erection which presses against her, hotter and wetter than before. “It would be awesome.”

“That it would,” she says. Her words seem to inflame him, making every part of him heavy with blood: his swollen cheeks, his breasts, the excitement that makes him tremble all over. 

She's on a roll now, his body beneath her soft and yielding as a waterbed. As she lowers herself on him a tiny bit, he tries to thrust upward into her, but she pulls away. “Shhh, lie still.” When he's quiet again, she strokes him again with her wet opening, her slick, welcoming thighs. 

Swollen with heat and desire, he begs her in hoarse whispers, “Oh, Claire, please. Please.”

“I might grow a baby. Your baby.”

Now he has to stifle a groan, and she's afraid he'll explode before she's ready.

“Say that's what you want, or I won't go on,” she whispers. “Say it.”

“I swear I'll be there, Claire. Whatever you need. I promise.”

Slippery as warm butter she slides down onto him, then pins his arms. He could up-end her in a second if he wanted, but he lies beneath her, heavy and passive. As she swings her hips in slow, lazy arcs, he sweats and pants and she can't get enough of him. In her mind she sees herself softened by another child, breasts like melons, weighted by a burgeoning belly, but she's not the only one juicy with fertility. 

When he finally spurts inside her, it feels as if it will never stop. He's drowning her from the inside, making her overflow, she's never felt so much semen in her life, and it's hot, hot as fever, full of life and power.

There's no turning away from it. Her body's going to be broken again, opened and split. Bred. Fertilized, cared for and cultivated by her husband, flesh surging out of control once more, and Claire has never been more willing to let go. He takes her breasts in hand to tweak her nipples, and she imagines them twice as big, twice as full of milk for two babies instead of one. She knows she's a good breeder, this is what she was born to do with this man, in this now, and her orgasm hits her so hard she almost topples over.

Afterward, he kisses the top of her head and rocks her in the cradle of his arms while she whispers, “Hurley,” over and over. His name in her mouth feels as good as his flesh. When he speaks low into her ear, each breath sends a shudder through her down to the core, and no “I love you” has ever sounded so sweet.

( _continued_ )


	30. Green Mansions

A river cuts through the land the way currents of feeling carve their paths through the heart. Sometimes water tumbles with passion, and other times it lies still, its glossy surface disguising the depths beneath.

Hurley stands bare and waist-deep in a tidal pool, bathed in morning light. He splashes Claire's slippery wetness from his body, the echo of her flesh still ringing along the length of his own. 

Awake now, she peeps out of their lean-to as sunlight plays over her bare skin. The baby in her arms looks like a little golden doll, his fuzzy head lit up with a sun-halo.

Hurley tingles under her gaze, at the pleasure and love in her eyes. Never in a million years did he think he could stand before a girl like this, especially under trees and open sky. This pool on the river's edge might as well be one room among many in a great green mansion set up just for them.

“You want to take him, so I can have a dip?” She never leaves the baby alone anywhere, not for a second. 

“Sure. Let me get dried off first.” It's like the child is part of her body now, and his, as they pass him and forth between them. He mops up quickly, then takes Aaron into his arms.

“We should get there today, right?”

“Yeah, probably. Gotta check the map in a bit.” 

She sinks underwater and then breaks the glassy surface like a seal, dark-gold hair streaming over her shoulders. The sweet blade of her smile slices him into two quivering parts. One wants to forge on, to confront Jacob about leaving the Island. The other wants to seize her in his arms along with Aaron, and run right back to the beach camp as fast as he can. 

The morning breeze isn't all that makes him shiver. Change is in the wind. Change he can't imagine, although he can sense it massing in the green jungle, and Hurley hates change.

That's not true, he tells himself. More change has come to him in the past three months than he could ever imagine, most of it pretty good. Yet all of that is nothing compared to what looms on the horizon. 

If Claire feels the same way, she doesn't let it show. After they dress, she roasts jack-fruit seeds in the fire, and they pop them into their mouths one by one like beer nuts. He traces the river on the map with his finger, telling himself that he's squirrely from low blood sugar and little sleep, from missing their snug bed. He has to fight his own tendency to over-think everything: what if they can't find Jacob? What if he says no? What if Jacob was lying about the Swan and women again being able to have babies on the Island? What if, what if, what if?

There are no dishes to wash, at least. The lean-to stands ready and waiting for anyone else who might come by, and off they go.

Onward the river flows, twisting in its bed like a snake, not straight the way Rousseau drew it on the map. Day turns from cool gold to molten. The land angles upwards, while the river's edge fills with jagged rocks. They climb alongside small waterfalls, each one steeper and swifter than the last.

Claire stops, tired and clearly worried. “I'm so hot.”

She doesn't dare step in the swiftly-moving water with the baby, so he fills a coconut shell and pours it over her head. After she's soaked, she drinks one shell full after another while Aaron nurses and Hurley frets.

What the hell has he gotten them into? Never mind that this was her idea; what business did he have going along with it? 

Soon they come to the steepest waterfall of all, a good thirty feet of tumbled stone. According to the map, they should be veering west, to the left. No way, though, because the leftward path is blocked by a sheer rock face. Neither of them could scale it, and even if they could, a jagged lip hangs over the top, covered with snarled roots and vines.

To the right, a faint path veers off in a gentle rise. Claire says, “If we take it slow, we can probably make it to the top.”

Her calm tone takes Hurley down a notch or two. If she were to panic, he doesn't know what he'd do. 

“Maybe after we get to the top, we can ford the river and double back,” she adds.

Ford the river, yeah, right. He could carry Claire and Aaron both on his back, but one slip and they'd all go right over that waterfall.

_Crap, crap, crap. Don't show it. Don't let her see how you feel. Don't—_

At once her hand slips into his, just like so long ago when he worked up the nerve to ask her to go on that first walk, when one thing led to another, setting their feet on the path which led them here. “It'll be all right, Hurley.”

He wants to believe her more than anything. “Here, let me carry the little guy for a while.”

The path side-winds through a dry woodland dotted with broken boulders, and Claire loses her exhausted look. Hurley can still hear the river, far away like a friend's fading goodbye. 

The plan to circle back left falls through, because thick, impassable bushes have grown in between the boulders. He studies the map again, fighting a returning panic. If they keep going this way, they'll wind up in the region called _“Le Territoire Foncé.”_ The Dark Territory, Rousseau called it. Just what they need right now.

Claire peers at the map. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't have to.

“I guess we're kinda off-road,” he finally admits.

The choices are stark: either forward or back. Okay, forward then, and now the land seems to lead them along. The smooth path winds through thinning trees, until they stand at the forest's edge.

Before them spreads a wide meadow covered in blue flowers, as if chips of sky were scattered across the green ground. In the middle of this blue expanse, a man-sized blur of bright white moves in time to an unheard rhythm. As his hoe rises and fall, both his tunic and light hair gleam in the sun.

Claire tugs on Hurley's sleeve. “Who _is_ that?”

He wraps her in a protective arm, his heart glad that they won't have to scale some scrubby cliff-side with the baby. In her ear he whispers, “It's all good, Claire,” then waves and shouts, “Yo, Jacob!”

* * * * * * * *

To Claire, it feels like it takes a long time to cross the flax field, where Jacob rests on his hoe, waiting. The sun has robbed him of all color, leaving him bleached. Surely he must have seen women and kids before, but his up-and-down gaze makes it seem as if he never has. She watches him, guarded.

“Hey, Jacob,” Hurley says. “This is Claire, and Aaron.”

Again that slow regard from under hooded blue eyes. After the briefest of nods to her, he says to Hurley, “Nice touch there, with the pilot.”

Hurley shrugs, as if he had nothing to do with the extraordinary transformation, had no hand in the newly-safe jungle. 

When Claire begins to sway a little in the afternoon heat, Hurley says, “You got any water, dude? I wouldn't bug you, except for that thing with no water bottles—“

“No water bottles?” Jacob looks confused.

“Yeah, didn't you say—?”

A faint smile brushes his face, then disappears. “Why would I have told you not to bring water bottles?”

 _So who did, then?_ Claire thinks as she tugs on Hurley's sleeve. “I've got to get the baby out of the sun.”

“Of course,” Jacob says. “Right this way.”

Jacob leads them to a cool, shady clearing on the other side of the field, where by a bubbling blue pool stands a cabin with a wide front porch and a cedar-shake roof. A lantern hangs on a nail by the front door. Nearby, at the forest's edge, there rests a large wooden barn.

“I thought you lived up on the mountainside,” Claire says. “But you have more than one cabin, it seems.”

“Just one,” Jacob says.

She doesn't bother to ask for an explanation. The more she tries to suppress her questions, the more they struggle for release, like a cat stuffed in a pillowcase. 

They sit on the shaded front porch while breezes swirl around them. The clay mug which Jacob hands Claire looks hand-fired, and the cold water fills her with energetic life. The baby latches on, content. It doesn't matter to him where he is, as long as he has his mum.

Jacob is the last to settle himself into a bamboo chair. “So, Hurley, have you changed your mind?”

She will bite her tongue off at the roots before answering for Hurley, even though she sends a surge of _No, no, no_ in his direction. Then she remembers what Hurley said, that Jacob seems to be able to read at least some thoughts.

Her yoga teacher used to talk about no-mind, complete emptiness. Claire was good at it, too, never falling asleep during the meditation sessions as so many others did. Now she lets herself fall into that composure, smoothing the rough edges of her thoughts into a glassy surface. 

Jacob blinks a little, as if being shut out surprises him.

Hurley doesn't seem to notice this silent battle of wills. “No, dude, haven't changed my mind.”

“Well,” Jacob says.

If no one else is going to get to the point, that leaves Claire. This isn't exactly a social call, is it now? “Jacob, we're ... I'm asking you to let us go. Home, I mean.”

“You think I'm keeping you here?” 

“If what you told Hurley is true, I know you are.”

“You haven't exactly tried hard to get rescued. Maybe you don't want to leave as much as you think you do.”

This stops her cold. Until Juliet had come on the scene with her horrific news, no one had bothered to build a raft, or cobble together more electronics, or keep the signal fire going. Then a thought bubbles up, one she almost can't bear. For the first time his blond, stubbly face fills her with dislike.

“Did you... bring us here? On purpose?” It doesn't matter anymore how that could even happen. 

Jacob hesitates exactly one heartbeat, and that's all the answer she needs. “Yes, I did.”

“Why would you do that?” She wants to spring to her feet, pace around the creaky porch, maybe even bring her hand down on the banister rail in a hard smack, but the child pins her to her seat. He needs her to be quiet, rested, calm, and his needs come first. 

Hurley has no such small but powerful weight on his lap. His face reddens and his eyebrows contract into a dark cloud across his face. When he speaks, his voice is flat, subdued. “There were like 250 people who didn't make it. We found their stuff, read their names.”

In her head, Claire multiplies numbers, figuring ten, twenty people for each one who died: the ones who lived to mourn their deaths. The friends who'd never call again. The old people who outlived their grown children. Spouses waking up to an empty bed, the kids without a mum or dad. Thousands of people, all mourning the lost of Oceanic 815. 

Throw a stone into a pond, and the water doesn't stay there. Instead it radiates outward, touching everything in its wake.

She can't hold in the sadness any longer. If Jacob can read thoughts, let him read this one. The lacy, frilly photograph album is filled with images of a young couple, newly engaged. Claire can't remember their names, but she does recall the young man's dark hair and wide grin, the girl's tongue poking out in one picture, the couple's two tongues touching in another. 

Gone, dead, because Jacob brought them here. Message received, it looks like, because he flinches. 

Claire can't hide the faint growl in her voice. “There had better be a damned good reason. At least you owe us that.”

“Claire— “ Hurley starts to say.

“Don't 'Claire' me,” she snaps at Hurley. “What is it you do here, Jacob? And why don't you want to do it any longer?”

His words come out simple and plaintive, a child who has played outside too long and hard on a blistering-hot winter's day. “Because I'm tired.”

Suddenly the dark cloud around Hurley is gone. “Aw, man, why don't you take a load off, then? Come down to the beach with us, hang back.”

At first, resistance rises up inside Claire, then vanishes at the sight of Hurley's open face. All at once her future with this man spreads out before her: every lost puppy or kitten, every sad, friendless, or stranded soul that washes up onto his wide shore will get drawn into that all-enveloping embrace.

This is why Jacob wanted him.

Surprisingly, Jacob shakes his head. “I can't do that.”

“Come on, dude. Juliet's told people about you. Don't be shy.”

Jacob hesitates, and at once Claire knows why he looks so far-away, so lost. That's raw hunger in his eyes, for a seat in front of the camp-fire, a place in the circle. How long has he been alone on this Island?

“I'm sorry,” Jacob says. “What I can do, though, is invite you to supper.”

* * * * * * * *

That night, full of coconut curry stew, Claire stretches out with Hurley and the baby on the barn's threshing floor, on a flax-straw mattress as comfortable as their own. The long walk has left Claire exhausted, but not as much as the mostly strained, silent atmosphere over dinner. Jacob obviously has lost his touch at the art of conversation, if he ever had it at all.

Sleepy, Hurley cuddles her from behind and murmurs, “What's his deal, you think?”

It hits Claire like a light switching on. “Seth. He doesn't want to see Seth Norris.”

“Hmm?” He nuzzles her hair, almost asleep.

“For fear of reminding him.”

Too late, because his faint snore tells her he's already asleep. Soon she follows, and when she does, she dreams.

She's standing at the entrance to the caves, but they look nothing like they did when Jack tried so hard to get everyone to live there. Instead of dank gloom, soft yellow torch light fills every cranny. The waterfall's low slap plays a soft beat in the background.

The largest chamber is filled with colored fibers, all neatly coiled in baskets. In their midst, a young dark-skinned woman about Claire's age works at a loom. Her neatly-braided cornrows are set with tiny beads which glimmer deep blue in the torchlight. She moves her shuttle back and forth, forth and back with a rhythmic, hypnotizing motion.

On the loom, a florid sun spreads its rays in every direction. Below, a crowd of people are drawn like children's stick figures, with no features or sex. They reach up to grasp the sun's rays, but only one of the figures has actually caught one. That one person seems to cling to the ray for dear life, as it lifts them off their feet skyward.

“What are you weaving?” Claire wants to know.

The woman's smile is deep as the forest, and her dark brown eyes shine. “Jacob's dreams. And my mother's.”

“Maddie?” 

In the distance a baby whimpers, then starts to cry. Claire lurches into wakefulness, to find Hurley walking the fussy baby. As soon as Aaron sees her, he settles down with a few indignant sniffles.

The baby is fresh and dry, just unsettled. “Thanks for changing him, Hurley. Come here, Cuddlepot.”

As she snuggles down with Hurley one side, Aaron on the other, the dream still haunts her. If she were back in their tent, she'd grab her journal and write it down, as she has so many others. That only preserves a hint of a dream's flavor, though, just like pressing flowers. What results can be beautiful, but whether dream or flower, only a hint of the original remains. Sometimes, though, what's left has a stark, suggestive beauty of its own.

The next morning, Jacob hands them two water-bags made of fish skin. Silvery and supple, they have no fishy smell whatever, and the water inside is as sweet and fresh as if it came directly from the spring's pool.

Jacob points to a path that winds eastward from the clearing. “Go that way instead of the river. It'll be faster.”

Claire can tell that Hurley doesn't want to pester Jacob any more than she does. They've come all this way, though, and she can't simply sit by and let their trip all have been for nothing.

Finally she screws up her courage. “So, what about letting us leave, then? At the beach we're building a raft. But you probably know that. Just like I know that you could make it work for us, if you wanted to.”

Jacob nods, head bowed as if a world of sadness rested on it. At once, Claire knows without being told that dreams have also racked his sleep.

“There's something I have to see to first.” The finality in his tone says that they aren't to ask what.

Claire has had enough of this god-business to last a lifetime.

* * * * * * * *

Jacob's path takes them through an ancient forest of the biggest, oldest trees Claire has ever seen on the Island. Even Hurley couldn't reach around their great trunks, if their trunks could be found at all underneath shaggy overcoats of creepers and vines. The forest floor stays cool and shaded even at midday, as only tiny speckles of sky light can fall through the vast green screen overhead.

They drink as much as they want from their water-bags, which never seem to empty. Even when Claire wets a rag to clean the baby, water keeps pouring as if it would never end. Aaron coos and giggles, smiling up at her with eyes of pure blue love.

He'll let Hurley carry him now, so Hurley tucks him under his arm like a football, pretends to toss him until Claire cries out, laughing, for him to stop. Then he swoops the baby to and fro, making airplane-like whooshing noises. 

When they break through a screen of trees to see Sun's garden, they know they're back. Coral-pink late afternoon light floods rows of taro and banana plants as tall as Claire herself. 

The garden stands empty, though. The usual crew of late-afternoon garden helpers are nowhere to be seen. It's bad enough to come back empty-handed, but this— A tiny worm of anxiety turns within Claire, and it's clear Hurley feels it, too.

It gets worse as they approach the beach. Shouts ring out from the trees, and soon Sun, Jin, and Juliet thunder up the garden path, and Juliet and Jin have rifles. When Jin raises his, Claire ducks behind Hurley, sheltering the baby with her body and hating herself for her cowardice.

Hurley isn't fazed, though. “Hey, guys, what's up?”

Jin lets fly a volley of Korean as Sun motions to him to lower his rifle. 

Juliet's voice is calm, but her eyes are wild. “Rose and Bernard went missing early this morning. Jack set up a perimeter, and the three of us have been keeping watch on the west.”

“I glimpsed something in the garden,” Sun says.

“Others.” Jin spits the word out. “Others took them.”

It sounds incredible to Claire. After all this time, no one from Juliet's old group has bothered them. 

Hurley fixes Juliet with a skeptical expression. “You know that for sure, dude?” 

The cool precision of her answer doesn't cover the rage in her eyes. “Who else?”

“I am so glad that you are safe,” Sun says to Claire. She is too polite to blurt out the one question on everyone's mind.

“Let's fan out and search again,” Juliet says. “If you two have come this far, you can probably make your way safely back to the beach.”

Sun glances at Juliet as if apologizing for her. “She has been under a lot of stress.”

Claire isn't ready to leave yet, even though Juliet clearly wants to take her group on yet another patrol. “Sun, what happened?”

“Rose was up earlier than usual. She took her bucket and knife for mussels, Bernard at her side. They went further east than anyone has, until they rounded the point and Jin could no longer see them.”

“I fish with net. Call them to come back, too far, they say no. Say they want walk.” Jin rolls his eyes at this foolishness. Who would walk along the dawn shoreline when they could be fishing?

“After an hour or so, Desmond and Rousseau went after them but found nothing, not even their buckets. Teams have been searching all day.”

“Which is what we need to do,” Juliet says.

Hurley and Claire watch their tense, anxious backs disappear beyond the garden's edge.

“Well, crap,” Hurley finally says.

Claire takes a deep swallow from her water bag, then stops in surprise. The bag is empty, for the first time since they left Jacob's cabin.

Hurley's is the same. In the hot sun, the water bags shrivel into thin, brittle fish skin. The flakes crumble between their fingers and blow away in the breeze.

( _continued_ )


	31. Lost and Found

Early evening sun daubs orange paint along the last leg of the path from the garden to the beach camp. Hurley urges Claire along, because at day's end, the tropical sun drops into the sea in just minutes. Soon the path will plunge into darkness, and given how freaked out Juliet was, Hurley doesn't want to slip into the beach camp unannounced.

Right outside the beach camp, Hurley stops Claire with a gentle motion. “I got a feeling we'd better make some noise. Get behind me, too.” Hurley still shivers a little at Juliet's ferocity, and he doesn't envy any Others who might cross her path.

Claire scoots around him at once. He takes a deep breath, then yells, “Hurley and Claire, coming through!” He's surprised at how far his voice carries. “Yo, beach camp, it's us!”

A rifle clicks, but the safety's going on, not off. Sawyer and Desmond slip through the thick bushes and block their path. 

At first Sawyer looks just as mad as Juliet, but when he sees Hurley his face sags in relief. “Dammit, Bigfoot, I almost shot you.”

“Where's Claire?” Desmond looks around wildly. “Oh, there you are, love, hiding on the windward side of the mountain.” He grins, daring anyone to challenge his humor. 

The four adults clump together for one big dog-pile of a hug, while Aaron squeaks at being squeezed.

They cross the western beach camp. After the last bear hug, the last murmured, “Oh, thank God, you're back,” from everyone they meet, Claire says, “So Rose and Bernard went missing? And where are Jack and Kate?” 

“I'll go back to standing watch,” Desmond says to Sawyer, who nods. “Don't be long, brother. If Juliet catches that western flank uncovered, we'll never hear the end of it.”

Sawyer runs a hand through his tangled, dark-blond mop. “I'll get it twice as hard, you can bet.” His eyes twinkle in the last fading light. “Take a load off, Hugo. To answer your question, Mamacita, Jack went with Kate and Rousseau to her old stomping grounds. Took the Bobbsey Twins with 'em. Sayid and Steve headed up the eastern coast one more time.”

Shannon brings a large tray with sliced raw fish, green taro shoots, and that ground-up root which tastes like wasabi, but with less kick. “Courtesy of Kathy and Shana,” she says. She doesn't set down the tray, though, but holds it as if trading the food for information. “So, when's Jacob going to let us get rescued?”

Hurley gulps. Claire stares down at the busily-nursing baby, and she's just as afraid to look up as he is. Finally he manages, “Well, he said he kind of had to do something first, so—“

Shannon slams down the tray so hard that the fish slices jump. “I thought so. I told Sayid we were going to be stuck here. We're going to get old and die here, and—“

“Shannon, put a sock in it,” Sawyer says. Only his flat tone makes it sound less mean that it would have otherwise. “Hugo here done his best.” 

“Sometimes that's not enough!” She flounces, but luckily the spraying sand doesn't get on the fish.

Sawyer sighs, the firelight and growing dark making him look more tired and weathered by the minute. “So, you got nothing from Jacob, it sounds like.”

“The dude is worse than Yoda.” 

Claire's eyes are full of warning, so Hurley doesn't say anymore. This probably isn't the best time to mention that Jacob was the reason they are stuck here in the first place. 

“Jack ain't gonna like that.” 

Before Hurley can answer, Michael and Walt approach. The beach coconut internet, as Sawyer calls it, works almost as fast as the real one. Michael's not happy, it's obvious, and Walt looks like he's been crying.

“Hey, lil' buddy,” Hurley says. “You see my blue suitcase over by my tent? You can go get that Green Lantern comic if you want.”

Even though Walt still sniffles a little, his face is a little brighter. As soon as he darts off, Michael unloads. “Everything's falling apart here, man, and it's not just the raft. Or Rose and Bernard disappearing, either. People used to fight, yeah, and sometimes it got kind of rough.” Michael's half-smile must mean he remembers Jin pounding the stuffing out of him shortly after the crash. “Now it's different. People are on edge like I've never seen.”

He falls silent, as if apologizing, then says, “I better help Walt find that comic. No use in him spreading your stuff out all over the beach.”

“Speak of the devil,” Sawyer says as Jack and Kate come into the circle of firelight, resting their rifles in the sand. 

Jack doesn't waste time, not even a glad-to-see-you. “So, what's the word on rescue?”

“There isn't one.” Claire has that same edge in her voice that she used with Jacob, the one Hurley never wants to hear against himself. She adds, “Jacob wouldn't commit himself.”

Kate sidles around to Claire, nestling down next to her.

“Said he had 'something to see to first,'” Hurley says. “Whatever that means.”

“What it means, Hurley, is that we're on our own.”

Shannon returns with Sayid, who seems to have calmed her down a bit. “Hurley, Claire, at least we don't have to search for you, too. What did I miss, Jack?”

“Hurley and Claire haven't brought us anything conclusive.”

Hurley knows why Jack said it, but it still hurts. “You kinda need to chill, dude, or you're gonna blow a gasket. Maybe Jacob can't do this right away. Maybe he needs some time.”

Jack looks straight past Hurley to Sayid, who says, “We found nothing, Jack. No trails, no sign of them at all.”

Hurley's almost willing to look past Jack's frustration. Almost.

Jack turns to Kate. “You up for starting again first thing in the morning?”

Kate nods, then positions herself with Claire and Shannon into one of those girl-huddles which Hurley never can figure out. The three of them talk in a shorthand of raised eyebrows, eye-rolls, little laughs and cryptic sentences. Their voices blend so that half the time he can't tell who's speaking.

“Alex just found out—“

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

“That was obvious, wasn't it?”

“What did Danielle...”

“She's not worried.”

“Neither is Faith.”

“She never was, though.”

“I know, right?” 

“At least Alex will have her mum.”

“Sirrah, too.”

Claire giggles. “Really? It's contagious, isn't it?” Hurley loves to hear her laugh, even though he has no idea what amuses her so much.

Then a long silence as Claire gazes at Kate, who shakes her head, _No_. “At least I don't think so.”

“Well.”

“Are you kidding? You're lucky.”

“I take it you're lucky, too.”

A long silence, so whoever is lucky is happy about it.

“Sun and Jin, though...” There must be an eye-roll in there or two that Hurley can't see, because the women all sigh at once, as if they perfectly understand one another. 

Maybe Jacob isn't the only person on this Island who can read minds. 

“It's different for Sun.”

Someone mumbles about Seoul, and a doctor that Sun didn't like, until Sawyer breaks through Hurley's fog with a sharp, “You still with us, hoss?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Don't feel bad. I can't figure out what the hell they're always yakking about, either. So listen up. No second breakfast for you, 'cause right after the first one at dawn, you, me and Desmond got a sector to patrol.”

“What?” They have sectors now? Michael is right. A lot on the beach has changed in the two days that he and Claire have been gone.

“You heard me. No sleeping in, neither.”

Over by Hurley's tent, Michael and Walt pore over the Green Lantern comic as Walt reads aloud, mispronouncing most of the Spanish but getting it way better than weeks before.

* * * * * * * *

By the third morning, Hurley is so tired of being woken at dawn that he rolls over and buries his face in Claire's neck, muttering, “Tell him I disappeared too. Tell him I'm dead. Tell him anything.”

Claire's no help, because all she does is kiss him into a state where he couldn't leave the tent if he wanted to. “Whose side are you on?” he mutters, half-laughing as he gently untangles himself from her soft lips, the warm circle of her arms.

She's not smiling anymore. “I'm on Rose's. And Bernard's.”

She's right. With them gone, the life seems to have gone out of the beach camp. People go through their daily routines like robots at their joyless, programmed tasks. Tempers are more on edge. If something minor happens to the raft, a thundercloud of rage brews over Michael. Sayid stalks about grim-faced, and Shannon's eyes are wide with anxiety.

Jack and Sawyer have been talking about a raid. If today's search fails, tomorrow they will take as many as they can muster, and every single gun. They plan to hunt the Others like big game, to make them give Rose and Bernard back.

Hurley suspects that Juliet is behind this. After all, she knows their ways, their trails, their secret caches all over the Island. Over the past few days he has hardly recognized her. The sweet smile which she reserves for Sawyer, the tender looks at Aaron, her worry over the pregnant women, all those have vanished. 

Yesterday Sawyer said, “She ever gets her hands on that bastard Linus, I feel sorry for him. She probably won't even use a gun.”

Juliet wears one expression now: the fierce, raging thirst for vengeance. 

So Hurley drags himself to the kitchen tent, where Sirrah and her boyfriend Chen have started breakfast. Sawyer, Jack and Sayid are crouched over a copy of Danielle's map, divided into grids, with pencil marks showing what's been double- and triple-checked. 

Charlie pokes Hurley in the arm, and waves a steaming mug of coffee under his nose. “You should learn to drink this stuff, mate.”

Hurley grimaces. He can't stand the smell of the bitter, chewy coffee, much less the taste.

Charlie lifts the mug. “Rose's legacy.”

It sounds like a toast at a wake, which is the last thing Hurley wants to think about right now. Because that would mean war with the Others for sure. “Charlie, don't give up just yet.”

“Who's talking about giving up? Rose was the one who found the coffee cherry bushes, remember? She said they grew all over Hawaii, so why not here?” He swirls the black sludge, meditating. “Of course tea is more civilized.”

“Who you calling 'uncivilized?'” The warm alto voice surprises Hurley so much that he almost knocks the mug out of Charlie's hand.

Everyone around the breakfast tent gapes at Rose, who must have snuck in to the beach camp somehow. She looks as if she has no idea what the fuss is about.

“What the hell?” Hurley finally stammers.

She lifts the lid of the big communal pot as if it's just another early morning. “Good, you got the water on to boil.” Bernard pads up behind her, carrying across his shoulders a long wooden stringer laden with octopus. He unstrings and arranges them on the food prep table. 

“You catch all these?” Hurley says. He's never seen a catch this size before, not even one of Jin's.

With a faint smile, Bernard picks up a wooden mallet and begins to beat the octopus to tenderize them. The loud thwacks draw even more attention, and a crowd begins to form.

“Where were you?” Jack demands.

Kate challenges him. “They're not kids who stayed out after curfew.”

“Kate, we've spent the past three days—“

Rose says, “You know, Jack, an army could have marched in here and you wouldn't even know it.” Then her tone softens. “I'm sorry we worried you.” She picks up a burlap bag, and Hurley stares at its familiar shape and color, trying to place it. 

The bag is full of pale, pearly grain, and Rose dumps one handful after another into the boiling water.

As Sun picks up a few granules and looks closely at them, she can't keep the wonder out of her voice. “This is barley. But I thought there were no cereal grains here.”

Rose stirs octopus chunks into the pot. “This Island is full of surprises.”

Desmond hugs Bernard, slapping him on the back. “At least we're done with that bloody search, eh?”

“I'm glad you two are all right,” Kate says. 

Jack hovers like a sailboat on a day with no wind, as if not sure what to do next.

When Juliet sees Rose, tears well up in her eyes, and it's like the old Juliet is back. Walt does cry, though. He flings his arms around Rose, sobbing like a little kid. “We thought you were dead and gone.”

“No way, honey,” she laughs. “You're stuck with me.”

Claire comes out of their tent and races to Hurley at once, sputtering, “Oh, my God,” a couple of times. Aaron squawks again, annoyed at being hug-squished once more. “You're all right,” Claire babbles. “I can't believe it, you're both all right.”

She doesn't ask where they went, or what happened. She stares at the bag full of barley as if she's trying to place it, too.

When the realization hits him, Hurley almost chokes. That burlap bag is the same as the ones in Jacob's cabin. The hairs along his arms twitch and begin to rise. When he takes Claire's hand, it trembles in his. 

Rose dishes out breakfast. Bernard's eyes gleam as he watches her - with tears or love, it's hard to tell. Maybe both.

Seth Norris is the last in line. After she fills his bowl, Rose touches his hand lightly, and his eyes grow wide with recognition. He slumps to his knees, spilling the bowl onto the sand.

Jack sprints over, feeling for a pulse, checking for breathing. 

“He just collapsed,” Hurley says.

“Better watch it, Rose,” Sawyer quips. “That's our only pilot.”

Rose crouches down and cradles Norris in her arms, as if he were a sad or frightened child. “Go to sleep, now. Rest.”

His eyes remain open as he struggles to his feet, wiping spilled breakfast off his pants leg. “Sorry, I must have tripped on something there.”

“Don't worry about it,” Rose says. “It can happen when you're out in the sun, working on the raft.” Under her breath she adds, “That you won't need.”

Hurley looks around, astonished that no one else heard that but him. 

Jack isn't satisfied, though. “I'd like you to come over to the medical tent, Seth. Just to check things out.”

Norris waves him off. “I feel fine, Jack. Great, in fact.” He peers over into the pot, which Bernard is scraping. “Hope there's more of that left.”

There's no need to clean up the spill. Vincent is right on it, tail wagging.

* * * * * * * *

Over the next few days, Rose spends a lot of time with Norris. Sometimes they talk, and Hurley overhears mention of Norris's wife or kids: joking that his daugher will be ready for her _bat-mitzvah_ by the time he gets home, or how much he misses Judy and their black labrador Winston. Sometimes he talks about being a pilot, having all that power underneath your seat, the responsibility for hundreds of lives. How when he gets home, he'll have to face a board of inquiry, and it's going to be ugly.

More than once Hurley hears Rose tell him that things are going to be fine, she's sure of it.

Sometimes the two of them, Rose and Seth, just sit quietly together and look out at the rolling sea. They're doing that this afternoon, while a decent interval away, Hurley fishes. He draws his nets through the churning water, gathering in one red sea bream after another. Ever since Rose and Bernard got back, the fishing has been incredible. The survivors are drying and salting fish constantly. For the first time, it feels like they can live for more than one day at a time.

Sawyer ambles up and cracks a joke about how if he were Bernard, he'd worry that his wife was going to leave him for a younger man. When Hurley just glares, Sawyer retreats. “Didn't mean nothin' by it.”

Oh hell, it's impossible to stay mad at Sawyer for long. “Juliet learn to gut fish yet?”

“It's a work in progress, _ese_.”

He hands Sawyer a stringer of bream so fat their eyes bulge. “Here, she can practice on these.”

Sawyer takes the fish, but doesn't leave. “So, what do you think, Hugo?”

“I dunno.” What he does know is that things have run smooth as silk since Rose and Bernard came back. The two of them work harder than ever, with a smile and pat on the arm for everyone. Rose even gives Michael encouraging looks about the raft, although Hurley can't forget her odd remark. “At least you and Jack aren't gonna go to war. That's pretty cool.”

“Yesterday I asked Rose again if they'd seen any Others. She makes this butter-won't-melt-in-her-mouth face and says, 'Other what?' Followed by some fortune cookie bullshit that it's all one Island, and that maybe to them we're the 'Others.'” Sawyer shakes his head, clearly disgusted. “What gets me is how they won't say nothing of substance.”

Hurley sighs. When Sawyer gets something like this between his teeth, he won't let it go. “Let me talk to her.”

He doesn't even have to wait for an opening. As he and Claire clean and slice fish, Rose appears. “You mind if I borrow your husband?”

Claire laughs. “Long as you give him back. Or I just might help myself to Bernard.”

Hurley sets down his knife and rises. “What's up, Rose?”

“You mind getting your hands wet? We can take that bag of diapers, too.”

“He's all yours, Rose,” Claire says. “Anything for more clean diapers.”

As Hurley and Rose scrub, wring, and hang wash on the line, it feels just like the old days when he would help Rose with the laundry because she wouldn't use the washer in the Swan Station. 

She waves a clean, wet diaper over at the raft site, where Norris, Desmond, Scott and Michael take a break under a spreading tree. Desmond must be telling a story, probably a smutty one, because the men break out in laughter. Norris looks around nervously, as if not wanting them to be overheard. 

“He's better now,” Rose says. “He won't be bothered anymore. Ever.”

Something cold slides through Hurley. “Rose, what did you do? Did you... kill him?” He's not talking about Norris, but about the dark entity that brought Norris back to life.

Rose looks genuinely shocked. “Oh, no, Hurley. He's not dead.” She pauses for a few seconds, as if figuring out how to explain it. “You know how butter is made?”

Hurley has no clue. What does butter have to do with anything? 

She brushes past his skepticism. “First, you get milk fresh from the cow and let it sit. When the cream rises to the top, you skim it off and churn it into butter. But the milk you buy from the store doesn't work that way. It's been mixed up so well that the cream will never separate out. 'Homogenized' is what they call it.”

Quietly she waits, while he digests this. “You mean, you mixed Smokey and Seth up? So that Smokey won't ever rise to the top?”

“That's right, sugar. Not even in dreams.”

“How did you _do_ that, Rose?” 

She smiles with all the wisdom of the world.

At once something hits him with lightning strength, and he knows. “You and Bernard, you weren't lost. You met Jacob. And he offered you a job.”

“He was at this beach, checking his fishing traps. We got to talking. At first we were afraid, until he mentioned meeting you, and how Claire yelled at him about the plane crash.” She pauses, as if not sure she wants to tell the next part, but that only makes Hurley more desperately anxious to hear it. “How much he wanted you to take it on.”

“I didn't. I still don't.”

“'Course you don't, sugar. You're twenty-six years old—“

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“You and Claire got your whole life ahead of you. Bernard and me...” Her eyes grow misty. 

They hang up the last of the diapers, and stroll together down to the ocean. Underneath the spreading ironwood tree, the “great lady” of the beach, they drink in the beauty of the sea, the pure blue sky.

“You want to know what the hardest part was?” Rose finally says. “Convincing that chucklehead Jacob that even if his momma 'had to' die after she passed the mantle to him, he didn't.”

“He wanted you to kill him?” Jacob was kind of squirrelly, but this is so much worse.

“Not me, Bernard. Who just laughed in his face. I wasn't laughing, though. I told him straight up I'd do his job, but it was gonna be my way. And my first rule was that nobody was killing nobody.”

“Hoo, boy, I bet that went over well.”

“Surprisingly well,” Rose says, clearly pleased with herself. “I also told him that after he had a little time to adjust, he was gonna clean up his mess, starting with Benjamin Linus and the rest of those Island hobos.”

“Adjust?” 

“Jacob's just like you, Claire, and everybody else now. When his time comes, he'll die. He's gonna have to sweat for his daily bread. No more fire lighting itself, or fish flying into the pan, or fruit dropping into his lap from the tree.” Her face softens, and Hurley wonders why he missed the faint glow which surrounds her. “Bernard and me, we're gonna help him.”

Hurley wipes his brow, trying to take it all in. “Rose, I got to ask you just one more thing. What about us getting rescued? How's that gonna happen?”

She stretches out her hand towards the open ocean, and if this was a movie, the ocean would part right before her. When she lowers her arm, she's only Rose: stern but funny, friendly but don't try any sass with her, or she'll let you have it. 

“There's a ship out there, Hurley. And it'll be here before you know it.”

Something else he knows, too. “You and Bernard won't get on it.”

“No, honey. We won't.”

A line of gulls sweeps across the white-speckled blue, and their cries sound like they're saying good-bye.

( _continued_ )


	32. Emotional Rescue

At the beach, two camps have quietly formed. Everyone still shares the same kitchen, cooks around the big signal fire, fishes along the same long strip of shoreline. Even so, it has become increasingly clear who watches the skies and the horizon line, and who doesn't.

Large fish nets get caught on rocks or sliced by barnacles, so they need mending every few days. On this cool, grey afternoon Jin has hung one over a thick tree limb, so that Claire and Sun can knot together the great gaps. Sun ties off the higher spots, while Claire scoots along the net's bottom. On a blanket by her side lies Aaron, waving his little limbs like a sea-star as he tries to flip himself over. Whenever the two women laugh at his tiny struggles, he laughs back.

“So where is Hurley?” Sun says. “I didn't see him earlier.”

“Jack and Seth took a group up to the cockpit wreckage to look for the co-pilot's radio. Charlie, Desmond, and Hurley tagged along.”

“Ah.” 

Down by the deepest tide pool, Rose and Bernard clean fish while Vincent begs for the guts. Whenever Bernard tosses a small bloody bundle down the strand, Vincent bounds after it and wolfs it down, ignoring the sand.

Claire has noticed how Rose moves about the beach camp like a woman with a secret: the good kind which she'll only reveal when the time is right. Like an engagement, a pregnancy. A rescue ship.

Or getting coronated Queen of Mystery Island, as Sawyer would put it if he knew, which he doesn't. As far as Claire can tell, no one does except Hurley and herself, and of course Bernard. Claire is bursting to tell Sun, working in silence beside her. Hurley has asked if he could tell Jack, but Rose has said no.

“I'm not ready for signs and wonders,” Rose remarked the other day when Hurley brought it up. “Maybe when the ship comes. We'll see.”

Claire knows that Jack probably wouldn't believe Rose unless she did something dramatic. “Doubting Thomas had to reach right into our Lord's side before he'd believe,” Rose went on. “Nobody else needed a demonstration.”

The beatific smile which Rose wore as she said these things still haunts Claire.

Rose has also told her what Hurley had only sensed: that it was best for Jack not to meet Jacob in the first place. Had he done so, had he believed, Jack would have insisted on taking Jacob's place.

“Then we would have lost him,” were Rose's final words on the subject. She didn't explain.

Although Rose goes quietly about her day, she can't help but leave small signs everywhere. When she swishes her net through the churning surf, it almost breaks from the weight of so many fish. The signal fire needs only a tenth of the wood one would expect for its size. 

That's not the strangest, though. A few days ago Faith first began to spot, and then to bleed. Claire can't forget the terror in Faith's eyes when she told Rose and a few other women. They enfolded Faith in their arms, passing her from woman to woman as each one murmured soft words or wiped away her tears. Only Claire noticed that Rose laid a hand across Faith's plump lower belly and closed her eyes as if praying.

The next day, Faith's pale face had pinked up with happiness. 

“Must have been a false alarm,” was all Rose would say. “It happens sometimes.”

The burden of this secret weighs Claire down, and she lets out a little sigh.

Sun pauses repairing a corner section of the net. “Are you all right?”

Caught, Claire tries to divert by checking Aaron, but his diaper is dry. When Sun pats the baby's bare chest, he gives her a wide smile.

“You've only got six more months,” Claire remarks. “It'll just fly by, believe me. You'll get back to Seoul, and—“

An impenetrable mask slips over Sun's face. “Jin-Soo and I are not going to Seoul.”

Sun has never told Claire why she and her husband were traveling to Los Angeles, but Claire takes a stab at a guess. “So you're going to live in the States, then?” She takes Sun's silence to mean yes, and goes on, “What about your mum, though? Your family?”

“What about yours?”

The question shocks Claire into silence. Mum lies unmoving in a Sydney nursing home while doctors still debate whether she is “vegetative” or not. Even though Claire has never believed that Mum is beyond hope, she can't imagine a life with Hurley in Sydney. They've only talked about California, how they'll marry as soon as they can, how afterwards she can get her immigration papers.

Something cold congeals inside Claire. Sure, the aides at the home will brush Mum's close-cropped hair, make sure that the telly is always turned to _Dangerous Animals Down Under_ or _Outback Wild._ Even so, Claire can't imagine not ever seeing Mum again. 

Since she doesn't feel like explaining it to Sun, all she says is, “Even if we lived in the States, we'd go for visits.”

Sun's response is so soft that Claire can barely hear her over the pounding surf. “We are not going to live in America, either.” She squats back on her heels, daring Claire to understand.

Claire finally does. “But why? You can't, I mean, what if Rose is right and there really is a ship? That means rescue. No one will be here, Sun. No one except—“ She clamps down on the words before they slip out. No one save Rose, Bernard, Jacob, and the mess they have to clean up. The one involving Ben and the Others.

“Don't be so sure of that.”

Claire hates to lay down the winning card. Sun has to remember how frightened everyone was over Faith, how at first they all thought the same thing. “What if blowing up the Swan really didn't fix things?”

Sun's glance flickers over to Rose before she can stop herself. “It did.”

She keeps knotting without looking at Claire. It's as if a long-buried box has just been unearthed, then opened to reveal the treasure inside.

Sun knows about Rose, too.

The moment hangs between the two of them. Mending the net feels as if they are weaving the fabric of the camp itself together. The word of an approaching ship has spread from person to person, even though it's spoken of only in rare, hushed whispers. Not everyone believes it, even if most do. All of this should have been clear if Claire only had the wit to see it.

“After Faith almost lost her baby, I spoke to Rose,” Sun finally says. “She told me that the child would be all right. I wanted to know how she could be so certain. She didn't answer at first, just asked me to walk with her to the garden. I go there every day, but it was like I was seeing it for the first time. The bananas are taller than Jack, even. The guava already have little round fruits. Something has changed.”

Sun pauses, as if the next part is being torn out of her. “She knew things, Claire. Things she could never have known, such as why my father sent Jin-Soo to America. Besides my father's watch, both of us were both carrying cash, just under the legal limit. Together we were to give the money to my father's associates. We did not know that the money was their fee for killing Jin-Soo.”

The entire beach seems fade into the background, even the sound of the sea. “Why? Why would your father do that?”

Sun's cold laugh chills Claire to the bone. “He has always hated my husband. It was to look like an accident, so I would be free to remarry without the shame of a divorce. My father already had the lucky man in mind, the son of the head of a rival company. A corporate merger, in other words.”

“Sun, that's... That's monstrous.”

“When Rose told me this story, I knew at once that it was true. Then she asked for my help, and Jin-Soo's as well. How could we refuse?”

“Of course you couldn't.” There is no sarcasm in Claire's tone.

“On this Island, I am no longer spoils of war.”

The sharp, bright laughter of children rings across the beach. Walt, Zach and Emma are playing pirates on the half-finished raft, climbing up and down as if it was a playground jungle gym. Michael walks past, ignoring them. He used to shoo away the children, but no more.

* * * * * * * *

On the trek from the cockpit back to the beach camp, Hurley brings up the rear as usual. Wielding wrenches and screwdrivers like weapons, Jack and Seth have taken the nose wreckage apart while the rest of them picked through luggage. 

Desmond and Charlie made some surprising finds: some cash hidden in the lining of a carry-on bag, a few jewelry items. Jack has said that Desmond and Charlie will have to see who it belongs to before they divide it up.

The broken fragments of Oceanic 815's nose lie strewn about like a disassembled Lego set, but the co-pilot's radio was nowhere to be found. 

Just their luck, Hurley thinks as he falls even farther behind. Seth and Jack lead the way, too far up ahead for Hurley to hear their words, although the frustration in their voices come through loud and clear. Hurley has heard Jack's speech before, anyway: Without that radio, they're in trouble. If a ship does come within radio range, how will it even know that they are there? And so on.

Directly ahead, Charlie and Desmond jostle each other as they play, “What I'm Going to Do When I Get Back.”

“First thing,” Desmond says, “I'm going to hunt Penny down and beg her to marry me. I've got no pride left, mate. I don't care if she takes a year to plan that wedding service at St. Paul's Cathedral. First, the registry.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Charlie agrees. “Get the bird in the nest, then feather it.”

“I've told you my deepest desire. How about you?”

Even the loud cheep of frogs in a nearby pond can't mask Charlie's sigh. “Got to find myself a bird, first. Other than that, ring up my big brother and apologize. I was a real shite when I left him in Sydney.”

As they round a bend, Desmond's voice drops out, although it sounds like he's saying something reassuring. 

Ol' Desmondo has the right idea, though. In his mind, Hurley argues with his mother, anticipating what she'd say if he and Claire didn't wait. Church weddings take forever to plan, and if this whole crash experience has taught Hurley anything, it's that both life and plans are fragile. If the moment presents itself, you take it. 

Charlie's voice drifts back towards Hurley. “I mean, if even Hurley can manage to trap a girl—“

Oh, crap, not that again. Hurley hardly has time to feel indignant because dead silence falls over the jungle. Not a bird, insect, or tree frog can be heard. Hurley stops, ignoring the others as they disappear ahead. It's as if the whole forest holds its breath. Then all at once it breathes out in an extraordinary, mechanical sound, one Hurley never expected to hear on the Island. The whirring noise rushes overhead as tree-tops flutter in its wake. 

Suddenly Hurley's taken back to when he used to drive down the San Bernardino Freeway in his Uncle Emil's borrowed Mustang convertible. Traffic copters zig-zagged across the hazy afternoon rush-hour sky with the same rolling thumps.

He doesn't hesitate. “Guys! Guys!” he screams, barreling down the path. “It's a chopper! A chopper!”

He pauses for breath in a clearing, where everyone else has stopped to listen too. “Over that way,” Jack calls out. 

They follow the sound until the trees clear. It circles overhead, a silver blur with a few red blinking lights. 

“The golf course!” Hurley shouts.

“Bloody hell,” Desmond says. “Right on the first tee.”

“At least it's not on the green,” Charlie answers back.

“Yeah,” says Hurley. “Like we even have greens.”

The group crouches behind a thick cluster of bushes. Jack motions them to get down, then unshoulders his rifle and releases the safety. “Stay back.”

They peer between branches. As the helicopter's rotors grow still, the pilot emerges, his wild greying hair blowing in the wind. 

Seth unholsters his side-arm, then almost drops it from pure astonishment. “I know that guy.”

Through gritted teeth, Jack says, “No!” as Seth heads towards the helicopter. 

The pilot hears Seth push through the foliage, and draws his own pistol. Almost at once he lowers it, just as Seth has. “Norris, you sorry bastard. Well, I'll be damned.” 

Seth breaks into a wide grin. “To hell and back, Lapidus, since you haven't managed to get there already.”

The two men crash together as they hug, slapping each others' backs with loud blows. 

“Frank, what are you doing here?” Seth says, catching his breath.

“Searching for your godforsaken ass,” Frank Lapidus answers with a grin. “Look at you, you fat bastard. How'd you hang onto that gut after being stranded on a deserted island for three months?”

Hurley winces, glad that no one has said anything like that about him.

It doesn't faze Seth, though, who shoots right back, “Like hell you 'overslept' that morning. More likely you were breaking the 12-hour rule in West Hollywood. You could have been standing here instead of me.”

As Jack and everyone else cautiously emerge from the bushes, another leather-clad figure steps around the helicopter. “Everything all right, Frank?” a woman's voice rings out.

She's small and wiry, with reddish-brown skin and lustrous black hair. Like Frank, she's armed. “My co-pilot,” Frank says, waving. “Stand down, Naomi. We found 'em.”

“Everyone here is from Oceanic 815,” Seth says.

Naomi lowers her pistol. “Is this all of you?”

Jack steps up. “There are almost fifty of us at the south beach.”

Frank's doing the subtraction in his head, forming mental phrases of pain and loss. “Only fifty left, huh.”

Naomi stares hard at Charlie as if she recognizes him from somewhere, but doesn't say anything.

Frank says, “Bring out our passenger now. I'd say everything is secured.”

Naomi nods, then opens the door just above the landing skids. A pale woman with a thick shock of auburn hair pokes out her head. She blinks into the bright sunlight as if it temporarily blinds her.

“Watch your step, Ms. Widmore,” Naomi says, giving her hand.

Desmond's carry-on bag full of loot hits the grass with a thud, forgotten. He stands in shock, and so does the woman. As he rushes towards her, she breaks into a wide, beautiful smile. He says her name over and over, folds her in his arms, covers her face with kisses. Finally he breathes out one final, “Penny,” then simply holds her as she nestles on his shoulder.

“I knew I'd find you,” she says. 

Desmond rocks her back and forth, his face wet with tears. He doesn't care who's watching. She doesn't seem to care that he's stubbly, sweaty, streaked with Island dirt.

“I was so stupid to leave you,” Desmond murmurs. “That bloody boat race. What a stunt.”

“It doesn't matter.”

Desmond takes her by the shoulders, fixing her in a glance so strong, he might never break free of it. “It does. I'll never leave you again, Penny. I promise.”

When they start to kiss in open-mouthed earnest, Hurley looks away. 

“Lucky bastard,” Charlie says. “Strolling along calm as you please, talking about his girlfriend, and she lands right out of the sky.”

Jack shifts impatiently, as if a thousand questions are prickling his skin like ants. He pulls Frank aside. “How did you know to find us here?”

Frank grins. “Not much call for listening stations in the Pacific now that the Cold War's over. Ms. Widmore there paid half a dozen to listen for chatter about her boyfriend. Never believed he was lost at sea.” Frank pauses, giving the still-kissing couple a rueful glance. “All my ex-wives do is hunt me down for alimony.”

Jack laughs despite himself as Frank goes on. “'Bout a month ago, somebody's instruments lit up like a Christmas tree. Naomi's the comms whiz, she can tell you the details. But it was like hanging out a sign.”

Naomi hears her name and strides over. “Ms. Widmore flew to Suva at once and leased a ship. The _Searcher_ is forty nautical miles offshore, to the east. Good thing there's only fifty of you. It'll be a tight squeeze, but we can make it.” Then Naomi turns her scrutiny to Charlie once more. “I know you.”

At first Hurley wonders if Charlie will start babbling about his band, but three months of people not wanting to hear about it have long since cured him. “I guess I just have one of those faces,” Charlie says.

“No, I saw you in concert in Brighton, 2002. You're the bass player for Driveshaft.”

It's as if Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny both showed up to give Charlie the best present he could ever imagine. When Naomi smiles, she looks a lot less like Ninja Warrior Woman and more like a fan-girl genuinely glad to see a favorite rock star. They smile at each other like twin suns peeking out from behind clouds. “That one, that was one of our best,” Charlie says when he can find his voice.

“You're famous now, you know. And that Halloween memorial concert, I couldn't miss that one, could I now?”

“Halloween? Memorial... what?”

“I don't know how your brother pulled it together so quickly.”

“Liam? The band?” Charlie's sputtering now. “How?”

“He didn't take a dime for it, either. It all went to Recovery Today.” When Charlie stares blankly, she adds, “You know, the substance abuse charity. All in your name.” 

“Oh yeah, right.” 

Hurley positions himself next to Charlie, ready to catch him if he faints, but Charlie pulls himself together. Jack and Seth drift away to talk to Lapidus, so Hurley trots after them. Desmond and Penny have finally decided to come up for air, and the six of them cluster around the helicopter while Naomi and Charlie huddle together, still chatting.

After a few moments, Hurley interrupts. “Guys, we need to get back to the beach, tell everybody what's going on.” He imagines how frightened Claire must be, to see a chopper pass over the Island. Juliet, Danielle, Sawyer all have to be freaking out, too. And then there's Kate. Oh hell, Kate's going to be wild, especially with Jack gone. 

“Hurley's right,” Jack says. “We know the good news, but not everyone does. Yet.”

Someone does, Hurley thinks. For Rose, this won't come as a surprise at all.

“All right,” Penny says. “How far is this beach camp of yours?”

Desmond starts to say, “About three klicks to the southeast—” when a rustle echoes from the same copse which concealed everyone earlier. A louder noise follows, along with the snick of rifles at the ready. Two of them, by the sound of it.

Sayid and Kate slip through the brush, guns pointed directly at Frank, Penny, and Naomi. “Drop to the ground,” Kate snarls. “Now.”

“Kate, hold on—“ Jack says, but Hurley pushes past him.

“Get out of the way, Hurley,” Kate says through clenched teeth. “I swear, if you three don't—“

Hurley doesn't stand down. Instead, he fills his lungs, plants himself firmly in front of them, and bellows, “Drop. The. Fucking. Guns!”

What does drop are Kate and Sayid's jaws. Kate lowers her rifle in pure astonishment and breathes out, “Hurley!” clearly shocked. Sayid gives a small chuckle.

Hurley's embarrassed. He swears, sure, but almost never the big one. “It's okay, Kate. They're here to rescue us. Hey, listen, is Claire okay?”

Kate nods. “As soon as the helicopter flew over, she wanted to charge right up here and find you. I had to talk her into staying with Sun and Rose. She'll be glad to know both you and Jack are all right.” Visibly relaxed, she goes over to join Jack.

Hurley says to Sayid, “They saw your flare.”

Never has Hurley seen Sayid so happy, so pleased with himself. Not in a smug way, either, but with the satisfaction of a job well-done. 

“You did it, dude. You saved us.”

“Who's the woman?” Sayid says, nodding towards Penny.

“Desmondo's girlfriend. She's got a ship, dude. Says she can take fifty of us with no problem.”

Sayid strokes his chin, deep in thought. “I had begun to make a life for myself on this Island. I wonder how difficult it will be to make one off of it.”

Before Hurley can answer, the crackle of a radio makes him jump. Frank's voice echoes across the golf course as he says, “Don't expect us home for dinner, _Searcher._ We found some survivors of Oceanic 815, and we're gonna do a little recon. Lapidus out.” He turns to the group, rubbing his hands in anticipation. “You guys got any barbeque at that camp of yours? I'm starving.”

( _continued_ )


	33. The Last Ship

When Hurley, Jack and the rest return to the beach camp, they're greeted by more than the smell of roasting meat. The whole Island itself seems to have poured forth its bounty in welcome. Sirrah and Chen have found honey in a colony of ground-nesting bees, and are busy stirring it into coconut cream, crushed pineapple, and nuts. 

“Ambrosia,” Rose calls it, from behind her secretive smile. She was the one who told Sirrah where to look for the bees.

Danielle and Juliet have each shot a boar, and the split rib cages and long strips of sirloin crackle over the fire.

The feast goes on deep into the night, and Hurley and Claire crawl into their tent long before it ends. As Hurley wraps her in his arms, she whispers for the third or fourth time how glad she is that he is safe, and relieved that the Others don't have helicopters. Then she reaches down to unstring his shorts, and soon the waves outside the tent roll in time to the ones inside, until he finally surfs into sleep on the thought that this well may be their last night in this bed.

* * * * * * * *

The crisis arrives the next morning. Penny and Frank pass the sat-phone back and forth between them as Jack paces about, and Hurley's gut clenches with anxiety. Jack refuses to leave without Locke and Boone.

“They've made their choice, Doc,” Sawyer says while Juliet nods, her face immobile as wax. Hurley knows the panic beneath Juliet's expressionless mask.

Pain stretches Jack's face as he struggles to explain himself. “This wasn't part of their choice. They didn't know this would happen.” He pauses before the others, mostly hostile or indifferent. “Look, I know that some of you had your differences, especially with Locke—“

“Locke was the one who split,” Sawyer reminds everyone. “Boone trotted right behind him like a puppy dog.”

Shannon scoffs, “That's right, Jack. What do you want to do? Trek two days cross-Island just to knock on the Temple door so Boone can tell us all to go to hell?”

Penny steps forward. “As I've explained, the Searcher's captain tells me that we need to be underway for Suva in ten hours, twelve at most.” When Jack gives her a blank stare, she adds, “I didn't schedule this tropical storm, Dr. Shephard. If we leave by late afternoon, we can avoid it.”

Sawyer's voice rises, and if he were a hound dog, so would his back hairs. “Doc, you ain't being reasonable.”

“You bloody well aren't, brother,” Desmond says. “You'd best listen to this woman. Look what happened to me when I didn't.”

Stubborn, Jack refuses to give in. “Then we wait until the storm blows over.”

“What, and risk stranding everyone here?” Naomi pipes up. “Ms. Widmore, this isn't what I signed up for.”

“Me either,” Kate says. All at once, it seems as if she and Jack are the only ones in the conversation, the only two on the beach. “I won't stay here another hour longer than I have to, whether you do or not, Jack.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jack protests. “Kate, if it were you, I'd go back for you. We don't leave anyone behind. We don't—“

Rose's voice cuts through the confusion like a foghorn. “Yes, Jack, sometimes we do.”

“Rose, I don't think—“

Hurley can't keep silent any longer. “She's right, Jack. You got to listen to her.” He freezes under the piercing gaze of all those eyes, then forces himself to go on. Sure, he swore to Rose that he wouldn't tell, but this is bigger than some promise. At his side, Claire gives his hand a little squeeze of encouragement.

Rose beckons to Bernard to join them over by the signal fire. “It's okay, Hurley.” To Jack and Kate she says, “Locke and Boone are where they need to be.”

“Rose, I understand you want to get rescued, as we all do—“ A chuckle from out of sight makes Jack pause. “About Locke and Boone, you can't know that.”

Instead of answering, Rose turns to the signal fire and raises her hands. A slow electric charge moves up Hurley's back, to his neck, and every hair stands on end. Just as it did during Grandpa Tito's funeral, when lighting burst out of a clear blue sky and lit up the priest like a light bulb.

The signal fire leaps into a great column of light twenty feet high, and everyone retreats from flashes of heat. Hurley pushes Claire and the baby behind him, as Jack does the same for Kate.

The little wood that remained falls at once to ash, but the steady yellow flame still mounts skyward. Rose folds her arms as it burns without fuel. “I wasn't planning on making this announcement till you all had left. But you forced my hand, Jack.” She sounds mildly amused.

“Sweet baby Moses in a wicker basket,” Sawyer says. “Don't you get it, Doc? She's like Jacob.”

“I don't understand,” says Kate.

Rose smiles. “Sure you do, honey.” To Jack she says, “If Locke and Boone want to leave, they can catch a later ride.” A cloak of sternness covers her, and for the first time a little fear runs through Hurley, along with the fading electric sense. No one has ever had cause to fear Rose, yet every word which falls from her lips bears the weight of judgment. “No one stays on this Island who doesn't want to be here.”

She waits for the challenge that never comes.

Penny's BBC-announcer voice breaks the silence. “I'll call Captain Barnes and tell him to launch the Zodiac. We'll be able to take up to eight at a time.” She scrutinizes the crowd, calculating and not liking the answer. “With all of you, just in the nick of time, I'd say.” She fixes on Claire. “Women and children first.”

Claire grips Hurley's hand again, hard. “I'm not leaving unless we go together.”

“No suitcases, either,” Naomi says. “Just whatever you can carry on your back. We'll need every inch of space.”

No one moves, though, even though the decision has already been made. Out of respect for Jack, they wait.

When he nods, both Penny and Naomi sigh in visible relief. A third of the group scatters, but most of them say put. 

Penny is clearly fighting irritation. “Was I unclear? We do not want to get caught out on the ocean in rafts when that storm hits. We shall be cutting it close enough as it is.”

Kathy steps forward, Shana at her side, followed by Kenneth and Brian. Surprisingly, Leslie Arzt joins them, and behind him even more people. Sirrah and Chen. Scott. Steve. Rousseau's not there at all, as she, Alex, and Carl were gone before sunrise. Hurley already knows about Sun and Jin, who have made themselves scarce as well. 

Kathy clears her throat before speaking. “Rose and some of us have been talking for some time about this moment.”

Claire pokes Hurley and whispers, “Seems like we weren't the only ones in on the secret.”

A small dread stirs inside Hurley, and blossoms. What do they know that he doesn't? Rose was sick, but she's not sick on this Island. Who knows what else had been wrong with those crowded behind Kathy? 

He himself had been sick, too. Sick enough to live in the hospital for months. Not with something like cancer, either, that when you told people about it, their faces warmed up and they told you how sorry they were. That's how it went with his Grandma Titi, anyway. With him, it was something you had to keep to yourself, because people would look at you not with sympathy but fear.

He tries to catch Claire's eye, drowning in sudden confusion.

She's more interested in the drama surrounding them, especially when Frank speaks up. “You got to be kidding me. We came all this way to find you people, and you don't want to be rescued? What are you, nuts?”

“I guess so,” Faith says, one hand over her curved stomach and the other around Craig's waist. “Because we're staying.”

Around Hurley the sunny bright air shimmers with the aura which precedes panic. He whispers to Claire, “I got to talk to you. Right now.”

She doesn't argue. As Penny starts to protest, Claire waves towards Ana Lucia and Cindy, busy rooting through their camp site while Libby talks with the children. “Take them first,” Claire says, as Penny falls silent. “Might as well throw in Michael and Walt. That would be a good first run.”

Michael hears his name and approaches. While he and Penny talk about bringing Vincent along, Claire steers Hurley away.

* * * * * * * *

Hurley follows Claire to the grove of ironwood trees at the forest's edge where forever ago she had stroked his palm with her finger, telling his fortune and shocking him with the prediction of a long life.

Now that he has her alone, fear strangles him. His tongue feels two sizes to big for his mouth, just as it had on the first day he met her. 

Across the camp site, Penny must have said yes to Vincent, because Walt and the dog both bound around, overjoyed.

At least things are working out for someone.

She squats on a fallen log and pops the baby onto the breast. “What's wrong, Hurley?”

A scant three months ago he couldn't have told her; couldn't have said anything even to Jack. He was so glad he finally did tell Claire, even though he hates bringing it up. “I dunno if I can leave. Because I might go crazy, wind up in the hospital again.”

“So what if you do?”

He stands astonished, mouth open. “I can't saddle you with that. You'd be living with a mental patient, you and the baby.” And any other babies they might have started, too.

The last thing in the world he expects is for her to laugh. It's not a cruel one, not even unkind. She follows it with, “Oh, you silly,” and the weight starts to lift. He sits close to her, never wanting to take his eyes off her sweet face, her eyes blue and open as the sky.

“Hurley, I've never been to a wedding in my life, but I've seen movies, read stories. What's the promise, 'in sickness and in health?' What if I got sick? What would you do?”

The horror which seizes him chases away all fear of winding up back in Santa Rosa. He's seen her in pain, seen a child emerge from her body. But Claire in the hospital, maybe even dying, him losing her...

Never. “I'd never leave you. I'd do anything. Everything.”

Claire takes his hand. “There's your answer. It's mine, too.” She turns his hand over, exposing his palm. “This is your heart line. I have one as long and deep as yours. You think they match because of coincidence?”

“No.” Having seen what he has on this Island, he believes it. He rubs his palm against hers, and the warmth runs from hand to heart like current along a wire. 

She lays the sweet weight of her head on his shoulder, her words clear. “Whatever happens, we won't go through it alone.”

He pulls her to his breast, tears leaking from his eyes. The baby's used to being hugged between them, and he doesn't even complain anymore.

* * * * * * * *

Neither Hurley nor Claire feel the need to say good-bye to those getting into the Zodiac raft. They'll meet again on the _Searcher_ soon enough. 

The Zodiac pilot speaks only Portuguese, but he beams at the children and ruffles Vincent behind the ears. Eyes still wet, Hurley joins everyone else as the raft putts away with its first precious cargo: Ana and Libby; Cindy with Emma and Zack; Michael, Walt and the surprisingly calm Vincent. 

The clear sky over the beach fills with the thump-whirr of the helicopter, as Frank and Seth, Desmond and Penny take the air route back to the _Searcher._

Hurley never thought he'd be sad to say good-bye to Leslie. “How come, dude? I mean, you were always going on about getting back.”

“I'm no Darwin, but there are insect species here that no one's ever seen. Arthropods, too.”

“Arthro-what?”

“Pill bugs,” Claire says while Leslie grins. “Roly-polys.”

It sounds gross to Hurley, but if it makes Leslie happy to spend the rest of his life digging up creepy-crawlies, more power to him.

Sun gives Hurley a long, lingering hug, while Jin shakes Claire's hand, then his. Bernard kisses the top of Aaron's head before giving Hurley a sideways hug of his own.

Rose gathers Aaron into her arms and rocks him a little. “Going to miss you, baby. You got a daddy here who's going to take good care of you.”

A new worry pops into Hurley's mind. “Rose, what are we gonna... tell people? You know, where we been and stuff.”

“Why, honey, you're going to tell everybody the truth.”

“The truth? I mean, what parts? Including the crazy ones? How is that gonna work?”

“You tell everyone what happened. You were in a crash. Most of the people didn't make it. When you got rescued, some of them wanted to stay behind. No, you can't help them find the place you crashed, because you don't know where it was.”

Hurley tries to wrap his mind around this. “But what about Penny's boat? Doesn't it have like what planes do, you know, black boxes? And what if they try to rescue the people left behind anyway?”

Rose laughs. “You just let me worry about that, Hurley. Kiss your momma for me, and maybe I'll get to meet her someday.”

Before Hurley can ask how that's going to happen, the Zodiac is back and ready for another load.

* * * * * * * *

“Do you mind if we wait?” Claire says. “I'm not... ready.”

Already those who remain have resumed the old routine of gathering wood, cutting vegetables, hanging up their nets to dry in preparation for another day. It hits Claire with a shock that she won't be here to join in. Under the Zodiac pilot's watchful eye, Charlie and Naomi climb on board, as do Sawyer and Juliet, followed by Shannon and Sayid.

It takes awhile, but eventually she and Hurley come to their farewells' end. Inside the tent, she stuffs as many diapers as possible into her back-pack and struggles with the zipper. 

Packing done, she turns to Hurley and opens her arms, wanting comfort. He rocks her in his massive embrace as she rests on his soft breast. He caresses her hair, her shoulders, and roves down to the small of her back, where he works life into her the way a sculptor shapes clay. 

Her life in Sydney seems like a dream, or a story she would tell to someone else. A cautionary tale, full of warnings like “Listen to your mother,” and “The sweeter he talks, the less weight he carries,” and “You find out who your true friends are when you fall pregnant and you didn't want to.”

Like everyone else, she died on the day of the crash: not in the flesh, because never has she felt more alive, more stroked into life than she does now. The old Claire Littleton might as well have crumpled under the plane's broken wing, because that girl crying in the wreckage feels like another person from another life.

The two of them fall quiet, still entwined in each others' arms. There's no clock to lash them on save for the pounding of waves, and the baby's babble as he chews his toes. 

She only untangles herself when Kate says from outside, “Claire? Guys? The raft's back. Last call.”

“Hang on, Kate.” She looks up to Hurley, taking in his sweet face, those warm brown eyes whose tender gaze matches that which blossoms inside her. “You ready? Because if you're not—“

He bends over and touches his forehead to hers. “It'll be awesome.”

She breathes him in, all of him, so generous in body and heart. “I can't wait.”

* * * * * * * *

No one has warned Claire that a Zodiac raft lifts halfway out of the water, or how fast it travels once it gets up to speed. With one arm she grips Aaron so hard that he squeaks, and with the other clings to Hurley. After a few moments she leans into the motion, letting the wind and spray play over her, adjusting her own movements to the rhythm of the boat.

She turns to Kate, snug under Jack's encircling arm. “So, what's the first thing you two are going to do when we get back?” It's a game the survivors have played many a time, with lightweight answers like eat a double cheeseburger, or jump in the sauna, or catch up on the latest episodes of _House, MD._

Instead, Jack and Kate fall serious as judges in a courtroom drama, and Jack answers for her. “Find the best team of criminal attorneys in Los Angeles.”

Kate nods, and it strikes Claire that this is the first time she's ever seen Kate afraid. Aaron's snug in his sling, so Claire loosens her grip and takes both Jack and Kate by the hand. “It's going to be all right. I know it.”

Jack leans over to Kate, brushing her hair with his lips as he says to her, low and intimate, “Whatever it takes, we're going to do it.”

The Zodiac turns a little. Behind Kate and Jack, the Island swings into view, and Claire notices that the Island doesn't shrink as they travel away from it, but instead seems to sink beneath the sea. She keeps watching until the last jagged green mountain-top vanishes beneath the wide blue line of the horizon.

“Claire, look,” Hurley says, tugging on her arm.

The _Searcher_ looms in front of them, a massive silver boat at least forty meters long. As the Zodiac pilot cuts the engine, the raft drifts into her wake. Shannon, Sayid, and a host of others who've boarded before them all stand along the rail, waving.

“ _O arnês!_ ” the pilot calls up to the crewmen above. “ _O arnês_!”

From the deck of the _Searcher_ , someone lowers a kind of chair with a strap. The Zodiac pilot grins to Claire and points to it. “ _Para você. Para você e o bebê. _”__

__“Go on, Claire,” Hurley says. “That way you don't have to climb the rope ladder with Aaron.”_ _

__The Zodiac pilot straps her and the baby in. As she is lifted high above the raft, up along the gleaming side of the ship, Hurley's eyes never leave her._ _

__Sayid and Desmond pull her over the rail and onto the _Searcher's_ deck, where Shannon and Kate draw her into their arms. Vincent strains against his leash with wild barks as Hurley struggles up over the rail, red-faced and determined._ _

__Jack arrives on board last of all. It's so like him, Claire thinks. Her brother won't set foot on deck until everyone else is safe and secure._ _

__It suddenly becomes very real. They're going home._ _

__( _continued_ )_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(A/N: We're close to the end, constant readers. Next time: an epilogue, telling how and where everyone winds up.)_


	34. A Soft Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we’ve suffered enough._ —“Seventy Years of Sleep, #4," by Nikka Ursula

When life weighs heavily on Jacob, there's some comfort to be had sitting around the cooking pit with other people. At least once in awhile. Mostly, though, he lives in his cabin, where the wood stove actually needs deadwood to boil his tea or oats, instead of a wave of the hand. Five years later and he's still not used to it. 

John Locke rules the Temple now. Sometimes Jacob visits, but he doesn't stay for more than a few days at a time, because he senses that beneath the veil of courteous words, Locke sees Jacob as an obscure threat. Besides, Ben Linus's tense rapprochement with Goodwin makes Jacob nervous. Had the two men been Romans, they would have gone into the fighting circle and only one would have emerged. 

Jacob still can't understand modern people. 

Only young Boone (a youth no longer, having grown into a tawny, golden-haired man) is sad to see him go. Jacob has often imagined inviting Boone to visit the cabin, but just as quickly lays the thought aside. Once Jacob was able to read thoughts; perhaps Locke can read his, and fears the competition.

Whenever Jacob has a craving for breadfruit flour, fresh fish, or vegetables, he makes his way to the settlements around the Island: a shy, solitary man in a white linen cloak, something like Gandalf the wise but with far less assurance. 

Jacob brings baskets of finely-spun linen thread and bags of flax seeds with their precious oil to the old beach camp, although it's not exactly a camp anymore. The rickety tarp-and-metal structures have been replaced by sturdy Polynesian-style wooden houses with steep thatched roofs. Hand-carved outriggers dot the shoreline. 

Rose and Bernard greet him warmly, as do Sun, Jin, and the others. He admires Sun's growing skill at the loom, even though he's lost the ability to read the brilliant green Korean characters which emblazon her tapestries. 

In a long-standing ritual, Rose makes him tea, for Jacob has more to offer than just flax. Freely he tells her what had taken him decades or even centuries to puzzle out with no guide or counsel. He tells her the mistakes, too, as she listens avidly and without judgment.

In the evenings, the children dance around him, begging for stories. Hiding the sting of tears, he tells them tales of tall ships and sea battles; of the dark-winged serpent which once stalked the forest. Wide-eyed, the children gasp or cling to each other. When they hear stories of the ghosts who still whisper in the tree-tops, they whisper a prayer for the dead, just as Father Eko has taught them. 

Even though the beach folk invite him to stay, Jacob always leaves, laden with taro root, salt, dried seafood. He returns home to sow and harvest more flax, and the cycle begins anew. 

He isn't happy. Perhaps he can't be, not entirely. But it's a life.

* * * * * * * *

Danielle slips between trees so tall they blot out most of the midday sun, leaving the jungle undergrowth in perpetual twilight. Alex follows close behind her mother with a toddler strapped tightly to her back. Karl brings up the rear, and all three bear large, curved knives.

They hear the frantic squeals before they spot the terrified young boar twisting in its rope trap. Danielle crosses herself, lips moving in prayer, then slices the animal's throat in one clean stroke. They hang the twitching carcass by its hocks and get to work at once. Even on this Island, heat will eventually spoil a kill.

Freed from her baby sling, the little girl picks up a stick and pretends to flense the tough hide just as her parents and grandmother do. When she loses interest, she dances around the gut-pile and pokes it with her stick. The intestines move from the gas trapped them, and she laughs. 

As the two women scrape the last scraps of fat from the boar hide, Danielle turns to Alex. “Do you ever regret it?”

Alex looks up and wipes her knife. “Regret what?” 

“This life. Everything.”

“You're kidding, Mom, right?”

Karl blows up the boar's bladder like a balloon and tosses it to the child. “Here you go, Roberta.” As she slaps it around, her happy cries float to the treetops.

Later they trudge back to their bunker in the heart of the Dark Territory, laden with meat, fat, and hide. Danielle can't help but smile every step of the way.

* * * * * * * *

On the Fiji island of Vanua Levu, a large sailing yacht sits in dock. On her starboard side, bright blue and gold letters spell out _Our Mutual Friend_. In the early dawn, everyone on board is asleep save one.

Desmond stands on deck, drinking last night's reheated tea from a mug. The grey beach is silent save for the occasional shrieks of gulls. Below deck, Penny and their son Charlie still lie curled up asleep. Desmond gulps more tea, grateful for the stirring breeze.

He's up because of that dream, the one he's had for the third time in five years. The dream is always the same. He's back in time to the night the _Elizabeth_ capsized and left him to drift unconscious towards the Island. 

In his dream there's no storm. Instead, sunlight pours like liquid gold over the corrugated rocks. Limp as a jellyfish he drifts on the waves, past boulders sharp as sawteeth. The warm sea nestles him, keeping him safe.

On the highest pile of rocks, a small dark-skinned girl waves, her blue dress flapping in the breeze. As he draws closer, she beckons in welcome. Just as he's about to reach the shore, a tremendous swell pushes him under, and that's when he wakes up.

He finishes his tea as Penny appears on deck. She takes one look at him and without being told says, “A few more people on the Island have decided to leave, haven't they?” 

He smiles and nods, already looking forward to the journey. Charlie at age three is old enough for playmates, of which the Island has a good supply. Every time Desmond makes this trip for Rose, he stays longer before departing, to the point where he wonders why they should stay on Vanua Levu at all.

“How attached are you to Fiji?” he asks Penny.

In answer, she lays her head against his chest. He hears her muffled “Not very,” as she rocks in time to the gentle slaps of waves on the hull.

* * * * * * * *

Walt has early dismissal, so Michael meets him at St. Andrews Day School on West 74th. His crew renovating the Hotel Earle can spare him for a few hours, long enough for he and Walt to grab some hot dogs and take Vincent to the Riverside Park dog run.

The flowering crab-apple trees look like clouds floating low over the green May lawns. Off-leash, Vincent bounds to and fro, sniffing some dogs, barking at others in happy, high-pitched yipes.

Even so, Walt is preoccupied, quieter than usual. “Anything wrong?” Michael asks with the normal parental dread that the answer will be too large to handle.

“Dad, you remember back in sixth grade, when I asked you how long Labradors live? Fifteen, twenty years you told me.”

Caught. Busted. No way out but through. “Your grandma was still in the ICU, Walt. I didn't think you could handle any more bad news.”

“I know,” Walt says quietly. “Vincent was a grown-up dog when I got him. Anyway, I looked it up at school. Ten years, maybe twelve.” They both glance over to Vincent at the same time. Not a single grey hair glints in his muzzle, and his fur is sleek, unchanged.

“I'm sorry, Walt. I shouldn't have lied to you.” Michael sighs. He has always known that neither Vincent nor his mother were going to last forever. Two years after he returned to New York City, cherries flashed as Ruth Dawson was sped to the hospital. When Michael finally got to see her, she lay unconscious in the ICU swathed in tubes, surrounded by beeping machines.

The next evening, Michael left the ICU to find Rose in the waiting room, sitting calmly with hands folded.

The ICU staff only allowed one ten-minute visit every hour, and Michael had just used up his. For some reason the nurse softened and let Rose in for an extra visit. She didn't even write it down in the log book.

When Rose emerged, she was smiling but said nothing. Together they picked up Walt from school, and afterwards he cooked everyone chicken burritos with white-cheese sauce. She listened with that same beatific smile as Walt prattled on happily about classes and soccer practice, while Vincent panted at the boy's feet.

She kept reaching down to ruffle the dog behind his ears. Michael thought nothing of it at the time, nor when his mother was released from the hospital a week later. Her heart had been fine since.

“It's okay, Dad. I was just a kid then. I get why you did it.”

A few moments later, Vincent bounds back to Michael and Walt, followed by a middle-aged woman with a whippet. “You have the most wonderful dog,” she gushes in an enthusiastic voice. “So gentle, and with such good manners. How old is he?”

Michael and Walt glance at each other before Michael speaks. “We don't exactly know. He was a rescue.”

The woman walks away smiling, as if Michael has made her day. When she's out of hearing range, Michael and Walt start to chuckle.

* * * * * * * *

Fragment of an Atlanta Tribune Life and Style interview, “YA Fantasy Author Shakes Up the Genre Once Again,” May 24, 2010:

...where we spoke with James Ford and his lovely obstetrician wife Juliet Carlson, just on her way to her busy practice at Emory University Hospital, where she specializes in natural birth in a low-tech setting.

“She's done it twice,” Ford jokes after kissing his wife good-bye. “She's braver than me. I got no complaints, though. Juliet does the work, and I get to write.”

When asked about his major inspirations, Ford mentions young-adult classics such as Judy Blume's _Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret_ and Richard Adams' _Watership Down_ , but his works go far beyond sweet tales of cheeky teens and fluffy bunnies. Ford draws from the well of his own experiences, and it's a deep one. His debut novel _Wonderland Express_ was inspired by his own personal tragedy as a childhood survivor of the murder-suicide of his parents.

Ford's second release, _Death Island_ , is based on his remarkable real-life adventure as a passenger who survived the mysterious South Pacific crash of Oceanic 815. The unknown island and a portion of the remaining survivors have never been found. 

Set on a fog-shrouded island off the coast of Vancouver, the shipwrecked young teens of _Death Island_ struggle with each other, ghosts, and “spirit bears” of indigenous legend, who turn out to be not what they seem. When asked about the distinctly non-tropical setting, Ford chuckles. “Let's just say I'm full to the brim of trekking through steaming jungles.” 

To a reviewer who called him “an unholy fusion of Roald Dahl and Stephen King,” Ford responded, “Strong themes are necessary in kids' books. Kids need to crawl right down there under the bed and confront the darkness.”

Not everyone agrees. Last year _Wonderland Express_ was banned in the suburban Atlanta school district of Cotterville, which led to a swift reaction by the American Association of School Librarians. Of the ban, Ford said, “Kids are going to learn about sex and death sooner or later. Better they come to respect both.”

When asked about movie options for his novels, Ford replied, “I guess the time just isn't right” for Hollywood, but added that his agent has been in negotiations with Netflix and Amazon...

* * * * * * * *

In early June, two women sit on the shaded back porch of a house high upon a Santa Monica Canyon hillside. Heavily pregnant, Claire sprawls out on a lounger, while two-year old Luke balances himself on what little lap she has left. Kate relaxes in a lawn chair, sipping iced herbal tea.

Four other children race around Claire and Hurley's backyard jungle gym, where five-year old Aaron has scrambled the top. He crows like the cock-of-the-walk as the younger ones try to reach him. When Claire's eldest daughter Rosie slips and falls onto the soft shredded-tire surface, she picks herself up without crying and tries again.

Claire says to Kate, “Leaving this weekend, are you? You might miss the birth.”

Kate smiles. “You'll have to do without me for this one. The court papers came earlier this week.”

“Oh, my God,” Claire says. “Finally.”

“No more probation,” Kate says with a grin. “I've never been to Cape Cod, but Jack says it's wonderful. Margo's already gone ahead to open up the house.”

Claire glances at Kate's four-year old twins, the same age as Rosie. “Lily and David are finally old enough for a holiday, I'd say. They were a handful for ever so long.”

“All that time on the Island, Jack was scrupulously careful. Then, when we finally got to Honolulu...” Kate laughs at a warm, private memory.

Claire has some fond memories of her own, of a real bed for the first time in months. The cold shiver of air-conditioning. How her hands slid over the vast expanse of Hurley's cool flesh as they snuggled under the covers, warming each other until they melted in more ways than one.

“The twins were a surprise, though,” Kate goes on. “But they did keep me out of jail.” 

Claire nods. Twins meant a high-risk pregnancy, and luckily for Kate, her judge was a grandmother who gave her two years house arrest, except for medical visits. Not that Kate was going anywhere, on bed rest for the last trimester, then coping with two gurgling, squalling bundles who filled her heart, life, and hands. Jack didn't schedule any surgeries for four months after David and Lily's birth.

Three years' probation followed. Now Kate was free to go anywhere she and Jack wanted.

“I'll miss you,” Claire says. “You were there for Aaron, then for Rosie and Luke here.” The little boy peeks up at the mention of his name, then slides off her lap and rummages in the nearby sandbox for a toy. “But I get it. It's your first time away.”

“You'll be fine. All I did was hold your hand.”

“Oh, as if that's nothing. Hand-holding is important.”

“Well, who knows? You might get another chance. Memories aren't all I might bring back from Cape Cod.”

Claire laughs. “Finally ready to try again, I see.”

“Have twins and then tell me how easy it is.”

“No chance of that, unless another one's hiding where we can't see him.” 

At that instant, Claire's phone chimes out the first few bars of “Catch a Falling Star,” and she flips it open. “Shannon, hi. Kate's here, mind if I put you on speaker?”

“Hey, you two,” Shannon says. “Just got done with a Beverley Hills hellcat who thinks her daughter's another Pavlova.” Claire can almost hear Shannon's eyes rolling back into her head. “You know my philosophy, meet every child where they are. It's the mothers who make me want to throw in the towel.”

The three of them chat until Shannon finishes with, “Hell yes, Claire, I'm coming to stay with you after the baby.” A little boy's voice babbles in the background. “Of course you're invited, Omer.” Shannon laughs, then goes on. “Anyway, Sayid's teaching a cram class in Monterey all summer. You know how it is, the Marines can never get enough Arabic teachers. So I guess with Kate gone, you'll be stuck with me. Since your mom can't make it.”

“Mum's only been off the walker a few months. And it's a long flight.” 

“It's been what, three years now?” Kate says to Claire.

Claire tries not to sound defensive, but the telly so often gets it wrong, and she does get tired of explaining. “You don't just wake up from a coma and walk around like nothing's happened.”

Shannon changes the subject. “So, Kate's off to Cape Cod. Me, I'm running back to back all-day ballet camps the whole summer long. Enjoy that vacation for me.” She pauses. “I know what you need to do this weekend, Claire. Work on getting that labor started.”

The three women explode into an uproar of laughter. They haven't forgotten how Claire urged Aaron into labor.

As Claire flips the phone shut, she says with a grin, “I could get behind this project.”

“Or on top of it,” Kate says with a smirk. “Oh look, speak of the devil.”

“Two devils.” Claire and Kate laugh again, because their husbands are anything but devilish.

As Hurley and Jack make their way up the path to the house, Luke launches himself at his father, squealing, “Daddy!” The other children take up the cry and run to the men. Jack, laden down with an armload of twins, leans over to kiss Kate. 

Hurley helps Claire to her feet. “You're just in time for lunch,” she says. “Your mum must run a brutal meeting.”

He laughs half-heartedly. “You remember when Rose came for that visit three years ago?”

“I remember,” Claire says. They had never thought they'd see Rose again, but she turned up on Hurley's parents' doorstep without so much as a postcard to announce her arrival. She had stayed exactly twenty-four hours before moving on, with a mysterious remark about other stops to make. The result of that sleepless night was the Reyes Charitable Trust, with Carmen in charge of the appropriations committee. 

“I think Rose created a monster. This morning, man oh man. I wouldn't have wanted to be on the other side of that Power Point presentation, I tell you.”

Through the Reyes Trust, Carmen has already funded food pantries in three parishes, health clinics throughout Los Angeles, numerous after-school programs, and a scholarship for Walt's tuition through college. Hurley goes on, “Today it was a guy who wanted to run those summer camps she's got in mind. She got a phone call in the middle of his presentation.”

“That was me,” Claire said. “I didn't know she was in the middle of a meeting. Earlier she just asked me to call at 10:30, put the kids on for a minute. Let them say hi to _abuelita._ ”

This amuses Hurley. “Mom gets crazy about lying. If she's gonna trick you, she'll do it fair and square. I watched the guy get more and more annoyed at her talking to her grand-kids. Long story short, no contract for him.” 

Jack laughs. “By those standards, my old man would have never gotten a position.” He says to Kate, “My excuse isn't so interesting. The last consult canceled.”

Hurley lifts Luke to his shoulders for a ride, just as he used to do when the other children were smaller. Rosie clings to his leg, while Aaron helps carry the iced-tea glasses into the house. Noonday sun bathes the garden with clear golden light, not Island light, true, but it still fills Claire with rare warmth. 

Maybe it's just the sentimentality of late pregnancy, when tears or wild joy can spring up at any instant. “I love you all,” Claire bursts out. “I'm so glad we're together.”

( _The End_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** We've come to the end of the journey, faithful readers. I hope you enjoyed this softer version of LOST with its more gentle ending. 
> 
> Thank you so much for letting know what you thought, both in reviews and PMs. Your support kept me going when I wanted to throw in the towel more than once. Many thanks also to my faithful story-editor helpers who talked me down off more than a few ceilings as this story progressed. You know who you are, and you've been invaluable. 
> 
> An earlier version of the Jacob segment originally appeared in a post on AVClub. 
> 
> Namaste, and may you find your “road to Shambala” on the Island or off it.


End file.
